Matchmaker II: Perfect Pitch
by MastersofNight
Summary: The honeymoon over, Erik resumes his work to groom Christine for the stage. But something very important is missing. Join Erik and Mirielle, the de Chagny's, some of the old cast and a sprinkling of new additions to the Vachon household.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to the further adventures of Erik and Mirielle.  
**

**1.**

Erik conducted his usual rounds of the Opera in the morning, retrieving the paper. It was on one such morning that the small envelope appeared. He held it loosely, feeling the mediocre texture of the hotel's stationary. The script upon it was in that achingly familiar feminine hand. It was addressed simply to : _P.o. t. O._

Tucking it carefully within the folds of the newspaper, he set off to return to the lake house. He'd left Mirielle in bed and gotten up to start the coffee. He would arrive to find her at the breakfast table in her morning wrapper, laying out breakfast. Their comfortable routine of reading over the news and sipping coffee afforded the sort of pleasant happiness he had always longed for. That and someone to talk to.

The journey was never long. He'd even taken to not trying to slip past the cleaning women. That was the sort of thing the mysterious hermit of the Opera was known for. Erik had evolved into something new.

It had started when he began leaving packs of strings on the chairs of the orchestra members, or leaving notes with a few francs for the girls who needed shoes. He'd only started that on a lark, but it grew. The people who cowered in fear began to treat 'the Phantom' with a wary respect. Oh, there certainly were those like little Jammes who delighted in squealing at every shadow. Erik thought the girl might have even kept it up just to annoy La Sorelli.

The Lord alone knew that Sorelli always did have her corset laced too tight. It delighted Erik to no end to hear the woman complain of her 'nervous exhaustion' because the task of keeping the rats in line was so trying. Erik turned a corner with a chuckle. Sorelli might look lithesome, but she was pure iron under that tutu. A cobra looked less calculating.

The Count would revive her with champagne and diamonds. She'd finally decided to move to the home he purchased for her. It was a fortunate act, for his untimely demise left her without a patron.

When Mirielle walked into his life, the world began to treat him different. The horror of the unseen Phantom sloughed away to reveal the man who knew the problems of the cast and crew, and lent assistance to the maintenance people and stage hands. While the Managers earned the accolades, their employees understood who to come to with a problem.

If it was for the good of the Opera and the people who worked diligently, then the Phantom could be relied upon to take care of it. The people who feared him were the thieves, the drunks, and the ones who took advantage of their position. Carlotta was one of those. Not only had she browbeat Christine, she'd turned the entire audience into a gallery of thugs who could care less about the music and more about stirring up trouble for those who stood in Carlotta's way. The woman's talent was misplaced. She would have made a fine Madame. Or despot.

Reaching the quay, Erik stepped back into the boat. While pushing the boat along, he looked down at the paper and the small envelope. It glowed a faint white in the dim light and blazed brighter as the sun's rays that came from the drains lit it. A far away part of himself was pleased she had returned. She really was a sweet and honorable young woman. She was prepared to fulfill her promise as he had asked. Raoul had held her close as they all but ran from the house that night. A part of his fevered mind wondered if she had only placated him, or if it was sincerity in those pale blue eyes.

Erik dragged the boat up onto the gravel. Entering the house, he saw the light was on in his water closet. Mirielle was pinning up her hair. He stepped behind her and placed a kiss upon the exposed neck. She'd donned her morning wrapper over her freshly bathed and flushed skin.

With a groan Erik gave her a hug and stepped away. He slid the envelope out of the papers.

"Oh. A letter?" Mirielle lifted another section of her dark hair.

Erik's eyes watched her hennaed hands. He seriously considered asking her to have her fingers tattooed. Knowing his wife, she'd chuckle at the request. She would also give him a calculating gaze, the sort the lioness gives the gazelle.

How far the great have fallen, he thought. The Phantom of the Opera, the Ghost who knows all, the specter that drives the creative force of Paris, was transfixed by one very teasing smile from his wife. Faugh! Nadir might have a field day with that if it weren't for the fact he was smitten as well.

Rising to the challenge, he settled his tawny gaze on his wife's shoulder and let it slide down her back, letting it stop at strategic places. Mirielle loved his hand against the small of her back. Erik confessed he loved the way she melted as he caressed her there. The gazelle was acquiring a few teeth of its own!

Returning to the more pressing question, he held up the note. "It is Christine Daaé's writing."

"Bless them, they gave us a full two weeks." She turned her head side to side, looking for errant strands. "I can't believe how that young man blushed when you told them about the 'waiting period'."

Erik tsked. "They probably make love with the lights out. The boy has a permanent flush." He lifted a hand. "He has cheeks like a girl."

Mirielle set a hand upon her husband's chest. "Now, darling, we know a real man likes the lights on." She brushed past him, humming under her breath.

Erik glanced at his reflection in the mirror, his lips pinched in distaste. "Mirielle, are you saying you, um, you think it isn't manly to, ah,…."

"Put out the light?" She batted her eyelashes. "Oh, no, dear. It's just a choice."

Erik relaxed a fraction. He never slid off the mask until the lights were all out. As a matter of fact, he'd even surprised himself when he had taken it off the first time. He'd allowed himself to be possessed by some demon, and took it off thinking Mirielle might not even notice.

Actually he knew what demon it was. It was shorter, rounder, softer, and dare he say it, more clever than he was. Its throaty moans a siren's call; he hadn't been able to resist it. Her. Her and her sensuous hands and her lush, welcoming warmth.

With a resigned sigh, he followed her into the warmth of the kitchen. He lay the paper lightly upon the table, chatting about what snatches of gossip he heard while going up into the Opera. For most of their leisurely breakfast, the envelope lay beside his coffee cup, an unasked question.

"Another cup?" Mirielle asked.

"No, I'm fine." Erik folded the paper over.

"You really are resisting it, aren't you?"

"What?"

Mirielle glanced at the envelope. "Erik, you never read the business announcements in the morning, and you certainly never read the race results. You'd looked over both as if you were searching for clues to the mystery that unlocks the universe."

He shrugged. "Never hurts to change one's routine." At his wife's skeptical glance he added, "It saved my skin more than a dozen times in Mazandaran. Ask Nadir. He never tires of reliving some of those moments." He folded the page and lay it down. "Very well. We should see what she wants."

Mirielle picked up the section of the news and looked it over, turning the page slowly. Erik lifted the envelope, noting the embossed lettering of the hotel's seal. It wasn't the class of rooms that he thought the Vicomte would be happy with. Christine had mentioned his aunts. Perhaps they hadn't settled because the old biddies were stingy. It wouldn't be the first time a disapproving relative had tried to force a couple to acquiesce to their wishes.

He pulled the note free and opened it. The message was brief. "She's asking if I am ready to teach again. It seems Raoul has suggested we meet here, at the Opera. In plain sight." His eyes arrested on her signature. It wasn't _Madame_or_Mme. de Chagny_, it was simply _Christine_. "She never liked the dark. I suppose her husband wouldn't settle for here."

Erik looked up at his wife. She was studying something in the society pages. "Ah, ha. Who is pretending to be reading the papers now," he crowed.

Mirielle lifted a dark brow and dropped a page so that she could point out the article she was studying. Erik made a disgusted sound as he read it was an art critic reviewing a show that held at least one of Radégon's paintings.

"I suppose I'll never live that down," he groused.

"Not anytime soon, dear."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Erik unlocked the door to the house, and held it open for his wife. Mirielle immediately took a turn through the parlor and the dining room. The rugs had been delivered, their intricate patterns and colors pleasing to the senses. With each addition, the house grew more like a home.

One afternoon when they awaited the delivery of items for the kitchen, Mirielle had started referring to the mansion as the river house, as opposed to the lake house under the Opera.

The previous trip most of the parlor furniture had arrived. Mirielle had perched on the edge of the settee, running a hand over the floral pattern woven into the damask. Today the tables would arrive. And so would the first applicants for the household staff.

Erik had one particular item delivered in quantity. Cognac sat in a crystal decanter atop the sideboard. He eyed it longingly as he glanced at the mantel clock he had selected. In less than half an hour, people would be knocking at his door.

He didn't feel nervous, only apprehensive that someone would commit a social faux pas and Mirielle would not be pleased. The woman who greeted life with gentle humor, would grow horns and spout smoke from her nostrils when anyone balked at his mask.

He went to the sideboard and indulged in one quick tipple as the hands of the clock swept closer. It was silly to be nervous. He was outgrowing that feeling by leaps and bounds as he escorted his wife through the park and to their favorite restaurant. If there were silver linings to every cloud, then the one that perched over his shoulders and bore down with every one of his fifty-one years did have a bright spot. After a while, he had just learned to shrug off the gasps and the stares. In truth, he chose to ignore them.

The first knock sounded and Erik went to sit on the settee, arranging the tails of his coat. He cleared his throat and listened as the first applicant greeted Mirielle. His wife's heels tapped against the parquet of the entry hall and led a heavier set of footsteps into the room.

"And this is my husband," Mirielle said.

Erik turned to regard the woman. She had a pleasant face and a head of white hair. She also squinted as she bobbed her head in greeting. _Oh good,_ he thought,_ a shortsighted housekeeper. She at least has manners._

The interview went well until the woman, named Jean, announced that she could only take the job for six months. Her son was returning from England and she would be leaving Paris. Mirielle chatted with her, but Erik sensed that his wife wanted more of a commitment than six months. He did as well.

The next applicant was a tall creature who reminded Erik of a vulture. The poor woman looked as if every sorrow on earth were etched upon her face. Her long neck was bent forward, her shoulders hunched. She glanced suspiciously at him, but responded politely to Mirielle's questions. Her eyes scanned the carpets.

"It isn't wool is it? Wool draws moths. Very heavy." She shook her head mournfully. "My back, you understand."

Erik sat through what seemed an eternity of complaints that ranged from the woman's left ankle to her twice broken wrist, up her spine to her neck, and the beginnings of her description of her nasal problems. Mirielle stopped it there.

One maid that couldn't see and one that was allergic to several textiles.

The next applicant appeared a better risk. The one after her was a shifty-eyed woman who kept glancing at the cognac decanter. He'd have to remind Mirielle not to hire anyone who would steal his liquor.

As the afternoon wore on, Erik half-listened to the repeated questions. One woman responded with tedious explanations. He didn't doubt she would make an excellent politician. Another woman stared openly at him, prompting Mirielle to accelerate through the questions and whisk the woman out the door.

One sharp rap at the door announced another candidate. Mirielle preceded a tall woman whose magnificent skin reminded Erik of coffee and cream. Her dark eyes held an exotic slant. She introduced herself as Anais Duvalier, told them her husband had brought her from the Caribbean and promptly died of a heart attack, leaving her to seek employment. Every question Mirielle asked, she responded to positively.

At the end of their interview, Mirielle turned to him. "Is there anything else you can think of?"

He returned Anais' frank stare. "You haven't asked about a salary."

"I'm working for ten francs a week. Anything more than that and I will work for you."

"That sounds fair." He nodded. "Do you still cook your Caribbean foods?"

Anais shot a glance at Mirielle. "I cook the best Créole. I rub the pork with chilli and lime, I make a melon soup with a hint of vanilla that will seduce you and I make you a big glass of _bois bandé._" Her dark eyes lit with amusement. "It is considered an aphrodisiac, yes? A man with spice in his belly and a glass of _bois bandé_ will be liftin' Madame's skirt every night."

"Well," Mirielle said. "Now I know why you eat all those spicy foods." She turned a teasing look on her husband.

Erik hired Anais Duvalier on the spot.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I have my own forum that centers around us reader/writers. This year we are going to self-publish an anthology of stories by several members. We shall be posting updates to let everyone know. **

**Read and please review.**

**3.**

Firman Richard stared at his secretary. Remy stood looking as if he were ready to bolt behind the desk. Richard thought the man might be drinking during his lunch hour. He swore that Remy said--.

"Madame Daaé—de Chagny—Christine Daaé is outside!"

Richard shushed the man in a tone reserved for spooked horses. "Now, now. Take it easy." He laughed. "I thought you said--."

"I did," Remy whimpered, leaning over the desk. "She's outside in a chair, with the Vicomte beside her."

The silence in the office became absolute as both men held their breath. "Oh, my--God," Richard finally sputtered. "Bring them in. Close the door and don't let anyone into the outer office."

Remy slunk away, eyeing the walls. No one knew when the Phantom was due to appear. He'd been absent for what Richard assumed must be his honeymoon. Richard glanced around, wondering if he would survive the day and how the carpet would look with blood or bodies littering it. André would have an apoplectic fit over this.

He stood as the door opened once again. And there she stood, looking as shy and lovely as ever. There was something about Christine Daaé that made many people want to coddle her like a small, lost kitten. She'd been quiet as a church mouse and as pliant as a sapling until her mysterious disappearance. She'd returned with new confidence that seem to radiate from her pores. Then after the Masquerade, she had looked haunted. Word was circulating by then of her hearing voices and having confrontations with the Vicomte. Both of the young people had started slinking around the back stage, hiding, and looking fearful. The Phantom's involvement was hinted at when she disappeared from the stage. No one else could have perpetrated that crime so brilliantly. What happened after that was anyone's guess.

One did not approach a respected French family to ask where their scion had absconded with his little Swedish soprano. Or why. Firman thought himself in for another bout of indigestion if the story ever came out. It was enough the Persian fellow was still seen after the young couple disappeared from Paris. That coupled with their Phantom growing quiet for a time left Richard stirring powders into glasses of seltzer in the wee hours of the night.

Christine floated across the room, and offered her hand. "Monsieur Richard."

He grasped her small fingers and looked into her pale, sparkling eyes. "Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"de Chagny," the Vicomte corrected. He gripped Richard's hand firmly then seated his wife.

"This is a surprise." Richard was at a loss as the youngsters stared at him. "Not the wedding," he corrected, "seeing you here again. You left." He winced at his pointing out the obvious.

The couple nodded. The Vicomte, looking dapper and much matured, sat a hand upon his wife's shoulder as he hovered by her chair. "We have returned so that Christine may resume her lessons."

Firman Richard could hear the bubbling of the powder in the glass already. A man his age did not do well with the loss of sleep, nor the burning pain in his gut. He adopted one of his stern faces. "You left more than a year ago, Madame. The Opera has gone on without you."

"I realize that." Chirstine's voice was still lovely, and now encased a sharper edge than he had been privy to before. "I've already contacted my teacher. He has agreed to take me on again."

Richard could feel the bile beginning to fill his stomach. "You have seen," he paused and glanced around the room, "_Him_?"

The feather upon her hat bobbed as she nodded. "I couldn't believe it. He had a woman with him—he said the day was his wedding day!"

"I would have thought it one of his delusions had I not seen the woman myself," de Chagny added.

Richard wasn't sure if the world was spinning, or if he were about to be physically ill. "Madame, um, she used to be Montalais. Now she's Vachon."

"Who is Vachon?" Christine blinked.

Richard allowed his disbelief to cross his features. "_Him_."

"Oh." The couple bobbed heads in time as if they were lampshades that had been upset by a bump to the table.

Richard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Isn't it a bit--." A thousand terms floated through his thoughts. _Foolish, scatter-brained, idiotic, dim-witted, giving in to a death wish, tempting fate, staring down disaster, throwing caution to the wind. _ He spread his hands. "Isn't it a bit late for all this?"

Christine's pale eyes turned as hard as a block of ice. "No. We think it best. He has agreed."

"I haven't," her husband muttered.

For a slim, sylph of a female, Christine de Chagny looked daggers at her husband. Someone was going to be sleeping on a sofa. Richard felt he should save his breath and his energy for himself rather than attempting to talk these two out of their fool's errand. "So why have you come to me?"

"We wish to borrow a practice room."

"Of course." He folded his hands upon the desk's blotter and sighed. "What day would you like?"

"Tomorrow at three in the afternoon," she replied.

"I'll have Remy take care of the details." He stood and offered a hand, barely feeling the handshakes or hearing their parting words. All Firman Richard could think about was how many hours he would be walking the floor tonight, and how far away he could be from the Opera tomorrow at three.

* * *

Erik held the cab door for his wife. Mirielle had chatted during the trip, and he had responded. Now, standing on the steps, he asked, "What prompted you to put that ad in the Paris newspaper?"

"What ad?" He blinked prettily.

Erik wasn't about to fall for her protests. "You know very well what ad. The one that announced I was dead."

She curled her hand around his crooked arm and allowed him to escort her up the stairs. "Why, darling. We couldn't let those two worry for the rest of their lives. They had to come back and discharge their duty to you. The fact that you are remarkably healthy is cause for happiness."

He humphed. Erik never humphed. As they passed through the doors he contemplated what exactly he was going to do with Christine Daaé._Strike that_, he thought, _de Chagny_.

He guided Mirielle through the building, down the great soaring ramps of stairs of the escalier, along a hall and towards the stage access passages. He stopped before one of the carved busts of yet another composer and snagged a small envelope. He ran a finger under the flap and read the message. With a humph he took his wife to the small practice room.

Opening the door, he saw Christine huddled upon a chair next to her husband. The two of them stared like startled dear until the younger man recovered and stood. He offered Mirielle his chair. There were murmured greetings and Christine's curious perusal of Mirielle's hands as she removed her gloves, revealing the marks of henna.

Erik smirked at the Vicomte, who stood behind the women. The remainder of the room was an old upright piano, a music stand, and a long table that sat with piles of sheet music, a metronome, and a pitcher of water with several glasses.

Taking a breath, he raised a hand. "Are you ready, Christine?"

She popped up off the chair and stepped towards the music stand. Head raised, she folded her hands and waited.

"This isn't a recital. Relax."

She swallowed and adjusted her shoulders.

Erik shot a quick glance at Mirielle. One of her dark brows inched upwards and her head tipped towards Raoul de Chagny. The Vicomte sat with his knees crossed and his arms folded over his chest, looking tighter than an over-wound watch spring. Looking back at his student, Christine stood as if someone had shoved a steel rod down her back. The very air in the room felt electric.

The silence was growing oppressive. Erik decided it was time to start before they all exploded. "Relax, child. I want you to turn your head from side to side slowly."

"Why?"

He clamped his teeth shut. "We are going to relax you, Christine. Right now you are so tight you will damage your voice." He lifted a hand, noting how her gaze followed. "Don't you remember we always began with relaxation?"

"I couldn't--." She snapped her mouth closed and shot a despairing glance at her husband. "I can't do this."

The disappointment in her voice tugged at Erik's heart. He tsked. "Remember all those times in your room. We relaxed you first--."

"Why?" she blurted.

"Because you are as high strung as a horse that is about to bolt!" His voice echoed. He turned away and undid his jacket. Setting hands upon his hips he took a few steps towards the door. With his back still to his student he asked, "Are you still afraid of me?"

Erik rubbed a hand over his forehead which felt as if someone were hacking it with an axe. The ringing silence answered for the girl. He looked at Mirielle who sat with a pained smile.

"I never saw you." Christine's voice trembled. "You used to be behind the mirror…."

Mirielle got to her feet, accompanied but the sound of the scooting chairs. "Well, then. We should take you to your room, Christine." She smiled at her husband. "The mirror is still there, isn't it?"

Christine looked surprised, but pleading. Erik straightened his coat and reached for his wife's hand. "Splendid idea, dear girl." Without bothering to see if the de Chagny's followed, he led his wife through the Opera once again.

They came to an intersection of corners, and noted several people scurrying in the opposite direction. "We have an audience," Erik murmured.

Mirielle chuckled. "They are expecting a war."

"You think so?"

"That or maybe a free lesson?"

He pulled her to a stop and reversed their path. Christine and Raoul halted in their tracks. Erik nodded towards the stage. "Come on. Let's have some fun." He heard Mirielle stifle a giggle as they lead the de Chagny's.

His wife looked up at him through her eyelashes. "You are a bad man."

"You love it, don't you?"

The sultry smile she gave him set his heart to racing. This didn't have to be a long session. Erik clapped to get the attention of everyone in earshot. "Come on. It's time for a little exercise."

A few of the curious held back, but Denise Martin strode confidently out onto the boards. Where Denise was, Drogos was not far behind. More chorus members followed like a line of geese. Erik organized them in a line and shooed the Vicomte towards the auditorium. "Find my wife a chair, if you please."

He addressed the group. "May I present my former pupil--.' The noise stilled and the world stopped. She stood looking young and lovely, and Erik remembered her tear streaked face as she stood very straight and offered her forehead to his lips. The beauty of her simple gift still filled his heart. He had let her go then. It was time to set her free once more. "My pupil, Madame de Chagny."

Her eyes softened, looking unfocussed, as if she too had returned to that room, that moment.

With a small cry she ran to him. Erik opened his arms and hugged her. Someone offered a handkerchief and Christine pulled away, looking embarrassed but happier than he had seen her.

In the audience, Raoul de Chagny stiffened as he watched his wife run to that man's arms. The woman beside him patted his arm.

"It's done," she said softly. "They are both free of the past and now you must let them get on with their future."

He looked hard at the woman. She looked serenely satisfied.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

The Vicomte sat chewing on the inside of his cheek. Christine had taken a place along the line of other singers, and the Ghost, no, Erik, paced in front of them snapping orders.

Raoul glanced at the woman beside him. Other than a few strands of silver at her temples, she looked attractive, fit even. What was disturbing was how positively radiant she looked as she watched the Ghost. Maybe she was a touch mad herself.

She'd leaned over and made comments about the group, pointing out the new faces. Raoul had attended the Opera for years. Many of the original cast was still here. The dancers moved on quickly, time and injury took their toll. Madame Vachon explained about the Russian stage now being the Mecca for the ballet.

He found himself enjoying her comments. He still cast a wary glance at Erik's tall, somber form. Watching him deal with people was almost unbelievable. His yellow eyes flashed at times, and his voice betrayed impatience, but he dealt with each of the people as carefully as he had ever dealt with Christine.

"I sat through hours of her talking about him." Raoul startled himself.

"He said very little about her," Madame Vachon replied. "I learned much of what happened from Nadir. You remember him don't you? The Persian?"

"How could I forget." Raoul turned to the woman. "How could he forget? We were trapped in that chamber."

"Yes. He believed that Erik had finally succumbed to some feverish madness. It was after he allowed the two of you to leave that Erik went to visit Nadir. He told him that Christine had been his last hope." She looked sadly at him. "He'd been ill and believed he was dying. He also believed she loved him."

"He was delusional."

"He was inexperienced," she corrected.

"Excuse me, but how does a woman like you take up with a man like him? You know he has a—colorful past."

She smiled. "Are you certain I don't have a _colorful past_?"

Raoul replied apologetically, "You seem very ordinary to me."

"Yes, I suppose I am. But that is what he needed. Someone ordinary who he could form a rather routine, ordinary life with."

"But he's—he was mad. You do know that."

"Yes. He sees it now as well. He was physically ill, but sick at heart, and that is why he turned to Christine. Look at your wife." She lifted a hand. "She's very pretty and well, a little on the delusional side herself. She loved the idea that she had been found by an angel. He offered her hope and guidance when she had very little of it. Then you returned."

"He snatched her away when he learned she and I were in love."

"It was time for the truth," she agreed. "If he remained a disembodied voice, he could not hope to keep her love, such as it was. You represented everything he could never be simply because you were handsome."

"We were childhood friends. Christine and I have been in love since we were very young."

"Yes, but that was the love of a child. She became a woman and accepted what Erik offered. She might have stayed if it had not been for you."

"She couldn't," he scoffed. "The man lives under the Opera. He was extorting money from the managers, why he even dropped the chandelier on the audience. He became a rabid animal when Christine planned to leave."

"There is always desperation when one is losing what one loves. The unfairness of it all and the prospect of a future without them seems pointless. You are mired in so much pain you wonder how you can raise your head and continue."

"The Persian and I saved her, you know. Her and probably half of Paris. He had found the gunpowder left behind by the Communards. He was going to kill us all."

She considered her fingers a moment. Raoul had been examining the strange designs. Perhaps she was a heathen. That might explain her interest in the mad wizard that haunted the Opera.

"We will never know," she said. "I am surprised that Christine promised to return."

Raoul shifted on the chair. "It was the longest night of my life. It must have been worse for her. He'd dragged her from room to room, begging on his knees, or standing over her and screaming at her." He looked at the dark figure upon the stage and the faces of the singers as they responded to him. "I can't believe that is him."

"It isn't. Not the man you knew."

"So beauty has gentled the beast?"

She slid him a sultry gaze. "You might say that."

Raoul suddenly felt warm, as if the tips of his ears were burning. It wasn't often that he was embarrassed, and never that a woman of her age flirted with him. He swallowed and wondered if she had snared the Ghost in that manner. It was hard to not stare at her knowing smile.

She gazed at her husband and Raoul de Chagny realized that the madman of the Opera had been visited by fortune. He considered the tall figure on the stage and worried for the first time that Christine might be viewing him in a different light as well.

* * *

Erik saw several of the stage hands lingering at the edge of the curtain. He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. "That is enough for today. Remember to keep working on the transition between the chest and the head."

One of the chorus members asked, "I was taught to strengthen my diaphragm. Was that wrong?"

Erik smiled kindly at the confusion on the woman's face. "No, my dear. But if singing were simply a case of muscle then men like Drogos would sing and men like me would have to settle for whimpering."

The general air of happiness in the group increased as Drogos stepped forward and crooked an arm, showing an impressive bicep through his shirtsleeve. Denise blushed prettily.

"Sing for them, Erik." Christine wore a knowing look.

"We really should be on our way."

The group began chattering at him and Christine lifted her chin. It was the same stubborn look she could adopt when she sat her mind to something. Erik cleared his throat and launched into a country ditty. It was simple and short and left the group gaping at him. "That will be all for today."

Confusion broke out. When would he return? Was he going to start giving lessons? How much did he charge? Was he going to be in box five again? He held up a hand and with a flourish bowed. "You will have to ask my wife."

Erik looked out into the audience and saw that Mirielle and Raoul were gone.

He dismissed the group and walked beside Christine towards the hallway that lead to the front of the building.

"You think I sound terrible don't you?" she asked.

"No. I just want to take it carefully. Learning a proper warm up is important no matter how accomplished the singer is."

"So I didn't sound that bad?"

He considered her hopeful tone, and decided to be honest. "You seem to be missing pitch."

She lifted her chin. "I was warming up."

"Exactly," he soothed. "The fact that your fiancé is sitting in the audience glaring at us doesn't help."

"Husband," she corrected.

Erik looked down at her. "Did I say fiancé? Good lord. It just doesn't seem correct to me yet."

"Me, either. You are married. How did you get married?"

He chuckled. "Talk to my wife for a while and you will understand."

"Your wife, I can't believe it."

"Why?" he challenged. "Even an old bachelor like me can be a decent husband!"

Christine froze. Even her clear eyes looked like chips of ice. "I can't believe it," she bristled.

Erik looked in the direct of her gaze and saw Raoul de Changy with his arms around Mirielle.

"What the devil…." He past Christine, his long strides eating up the distance between him and the fop. Mirielle had bent down and was tugging at her skirt. "_de Chagny_."

"Raoul!" Christine screeched.

Raoul and Mirielle both glanced up quickly. She stuck out a hand towards Erik. "Goodness! I turned my ankle! Can you believe it?"

Erik supported his wife as the Vicomte stepped away, mouth ajar.

"I think it was her heel," he said.

"Set me on the stairs, dear." Mirielle tucked her skirt under her and held on to Erik's arm.

He pushed aside her skirt and saw that her heel had indeed broke loose from the shoe. "I think it can be fixed." He ran questing fingers along the bones of her foot. "Did you twist it?"

Mirielle reached down to rub her leg. "No. It just felt as if it caught, and the next thing I knew Raoul captured me as I fell."

Erik stared at his wife. "Raoul?"

She stared back. "The young man I was sitting with? He saved me from falling on my face, Erik." She added under her breath, "That is all."

"Here, let me help you up." Erik turned with his wife in his arms, very tightly in his arms, and glared at the Vicomte. "Thank you," he bit out.

"You're welcome," Raoul growled back.

"Come, Mirielle. Let's go home and soak that ankle." He left The de Chagny's behind.

Raoul took his wife's elbow. She walked stiffly towards the front of the Opera. "I watched your lesson." Christine humphed at him. "What?"

"I said," she pronounced, "Maybe I should have been watching you."

"Why? I was sitting in the audience. Didn't you see me? Or were you so absorbed by him?"

"Absorbed? Excuse me, Raoul? You were the one ogling that woman's bosom."

"What?" he exploded.

She shushed him and glanced around the vestibule. His voice still echoed. She stabbed a finger at his chest. "You practically had you nose buried in her cleavage!" she hissed.

"Don't be absurd!" Raoul looked at his wife. "I think your proximity to that madman has affected your thoughts once again."

Christine drew herself up. "So it is true! You thought I was mad, didn't you? Don't deny it!" She poked him again. "Poor little Christine and her voices. Well, you've seen where the voice came from! He's as solid as you are."

"Solid?" He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his wife. "Was he solid when you hugged him? I saw you, don't deny it!"

She made a noise and bustled away. "Now who is mad?"

"I've always suspected what he told you before he freed you, Chris."

She turned with a stricken look. "Oh, Raoul. I never lied to you. I lied for you and for him because I couldn't stop the two of you fighting. It was bound to happen. I didn't want either of you hurt." She shook her head. "I hurt him terribly. I didn't understand until that night how ill he was, or how much he loved me." She squared her shoulders. "You remember that I said he kissed my forehead?"

"Yes."

She lifted her chin. "I kissed him back."

The silence in the vestibule was complete as the young couple gazed at each other. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "I broke him, Raoul. I could feel his heart tearing to pieces, and he still looked so happy. He pulled off the mask and let my tears pour down his face. For the first time in my life I wished I could say yes. But I just couldn't."

Raoul offered her his handkerchief. "It wasn't meant to be, Chris. Look, he has someone now. The two of you would have just been miserable together."

"It still hurts," she whispered.

"It isn't your fault, sweetheart."

She sniffed and dried her eyes. "It's better this way."

"Yes. I believe it is."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: There is a bit more of a risque version of this one. I'll post it over on my web page Masters of Night dot com. Thank you for reading and reviewing. **

5.

Mirielle wobbled a bit on her hurt leg as Erik helped her down from the cab. He gave her a second to steady herself before sweeping her up into his arms.

"Goodness," she said breathlessly.

As he approached his front door, it swung inward to reveal a concerned Anais Duvalier. "Is Madame all right?"

"She's twisted her ankle," Erik informed her.

"Do you need some bandages?" Anais asked.

"Oh, yes," Mirielle replied over her husband's shoulder. "Where are we going?"

Erik started up the stairs. "We should get you into a robe. Anais can bring you tea while I look at your ankle. I want to make sure it hasn't started swelling."

"Did it look that bad?"

"It didn't look reddened, but we should be sure. It can grow painful."

"Oh," she pouted.

He stopped before their bedroom door and pushed it open with his foot. Erik placed a knee on the bed and lowered Mirielle to the mattress. She unpinned her hat and handed it to him. "I feel so foolish."

"Why?"

"It just seems so clumsy of me."

"Mirielle, accidents happen. You can't have known when you dressed this morning that your heel was going to break lose."

"I was lucky that Raoul was there. He caught hold of my arm, or I might have pitched down the stairs."

Erik unlaced her shoe. "He caught more than your arm."

"Well, yes. He arrested my fall and then slid his arm around my waist…." She paused. "Erik? Are you jealous?"

He looked into his wife's startled eyes. "Only that he had his arm around you. That is my job. And so is undressing my wife." He pushed up her skirt and undid the top of her stocking, letting his fingers settle upon the warm silk.

"You devil."

"At your service." He rolled the silk down her leg, allowing his fingers to stroke behind her knee. He tossed the stocking aside and grinned at his wife. "Let's take a look at the ankle."

Cradling her foot, he ran a finger along the bones beneath. "Is it tender?"

"A little."

"Well, I think we should wrap it. Elevation often helps. We can put a pillow under your calf." Erik fluffed the pillows behind her back. "You know, we weren't doing anything this evening. You should slip into your robe. Anais could fix something on a tray and we could eat here."

"You are so kind to me."

"Nonsense, Mirielle. You are my wife, I should look after you."

"You do a splendid job." She laid a hand upon her bodice and Erik's eyes tracked the movements of her fingers. Each hennaed pattern shifted and disappeared under the material to reemerge as the buttons slipped free.

Mirielle smothered the urge to grin at her husband's intense gaze. It really wasn't fair of her to resort to displaying her hands again, but having him fall under her feminine powers was too heady to resist. "Can you bring me my robe, darling?"

"Yes." He stood, watching the opening of her bodice gaping wider.

"I hung it over the hook. You know, the one just inside the door of the wardrobe?" She lifted a finger and pointed to the piece of furniture and let her hand return to her bodice. "Erik?"

"Yes, Mirielle?"

"My robe?"

"Of course."

Unable to contain her mirth, she giggled and ran her hands down the front of the bodice, pulling it open to reveal her corset and chemise. She traced the buttons with a fingertip as Erik stood watching with rapt interest.

A swift knock interrupted the silence. Anais swept in carrying a small box. She looked from Mirielle back to her master and sat a hand upon her hip. "Bandages, yes? I thought it was her ankle that was needing looking at, m'seiur."

Erik appeared to shake himself out of his stupor and walked to the wardrobe. "I was going to help her into her robe."

Anais sat the box on the table next to the bedside. "I just bet you were." Her smile was warm and lopsided as she looked at her mistress. With a wink she asked in a louder voice. "Can I get Madame anything? Tea?" She slid a glance at Erik. "Maybe a glass of something stronger? For the pain, of course."

Erik crossed the room with the robe. He straightened and cocked his head. "What pain? I'm going to be very gentle with her."

Anais' grin turned downward. "Spoil sport." She turned on her heel. "I'll run down and bring some ice."

Mirielle watched Erik staring at the door. He looked troubled as he turned back to her. "What did she mean by that? I'm not about to torture you."

"No, you aren't." She lay back and smiled, one hennaed hand resting upon her bosom. "She was asking if I needed it for fortitude is all."

"Good lord, Mirielle. I'm not going to harm you, dear girl. I shall be as gentle as possible with the limb."

"Before or after?"

"Before? I think it best to ice it and then wrap it don't you?"

"I was asking," she said as she began pulling open her corset busk, "before or after you take my clothes off?"

Feeling he was missing something, Erik stood watching his wife's hands. Her skirt was pushed up, her lovely body was being freed of that damnable female armor. It came to him there was another way to keep her leg elevated. He squashed the idea, feeling a proper cad. His wife might actually be in pain and he was hoping to…. He cleared his throat and attempted to sound grave. "This might be difficult to get you out of your clothing without disturbing the ankle."

"Here." She rolled onto her stomach. Over her shoulder she instructed, "Undo my skirt and pull it off."

He did, slowly withdrawing it over her leg. Her underskirt came next, and then she was down to her other stocking. He paused to enjoy the marvelous roundness of her hips and buttocks encased in the soft cotton. The expanse of her thigh above the stocking made his fingers itch to trace it to where it disappeared up under her clothing.

She rested on an elbow and looked up at him. "You might as well bring my gown. I don't think I'll need to go downstairs again. That would kill two birds with one stone, wouldn't it?"

Erik was feeling decidedly warm. Throbbing. Anais had better hurry with the ice he thought a split second before Mirielle began to turn slowly onto her back. Lord above, but she was so sensual it was exhilarating just to watch her. Her fingers stretched towards the top of her other stocking.

"Help."

She looked at him quizzically.

"I'll help find the ice." He sprinted towards the door and took the stairs two at a time. Anais stood just inside the kitchen door. A small bucket of ice, the decanter and two glasses rested on a tray she held out.

"I'll hold dinner until I hear from one of you." She smiled and Erik resolved to give her a raise. A servant who knew when not to interrupt was worth her weight in gold.

He turned and ran back up the stairs.

Closing the door, he saw Mirielle sitting up and pushing the bodice off. The corset popped off next and was tossed on the floor.

"Bandages, ice and Cognac," she mused. She pulled her hairpins out allowing the dark waves of her hair to caress her cheeks, her neck.

Erik sat the bucket upon the rug and shrugged off his jacket. "Do you remember the ice?"

Mirielle drew up her knees and looked across at her husband. "How could I forget?"

His fingers flew along the buttons on his vest. His shirt came next. He dipped into the bucket and scooped up several small chunks. Depositing them in a glass, he tipped the liquor over them. He retrieved one shinning lump and held it to her lips.

The ice chilled the liquor, the liquor stoked the flames, and after watching Mirielle take a chunk between her lips and suck on it, Erik nearly forgot about her injury.

"I'll be gentle," he whispered against her lips after a kiss.

"Don't you dare." Her hands were already stroking his back and urging him closer.

The room grew dimmer and in the twilight that arrived, the mask would fall away and Erik would make love to her. The demon in the dark loved her as much as the gentleman who inhabited her days. Perhaps even more so. The sex could reach an intensity that was as exhilarating as it was frightening. In the dark he plumbed her soul and rode the welling emotions she offered.

They lay awhile, entangled and sighing. He got up and went to the water closet to draw her a bath. Retrieving the mask, he tied it on before lighting a lamp next to the bed. Lifting her pliant body, he deposited her in the tub, putting a towel behind her head so that she could relax back and let the warm water do its work.

He retrieved her robe and gown. Towling her off, he marveled at the soft pink flush along her skin. He tucked her back into bed and cleaned up.

Dressed, he sought and found Anais sitting in the parlor looking at a magazine. She cheerfully asked if they were ready to dine.

"Just something light, I think."

She folded the pages closed and considered. "Madame likes the chicken with lime. I can fry up a few slices so they are crispy. I've got some vegetables, too."

"That sounds delicious," he admitted. Anais never disappointed him.

"Would you like something hot to drink, or the wine?"

He considered how spicy the chicken was. "The wine. I can always make her a cup of tea later."

Anais stood before him and smiled. "You are a good husband."

Erik watched her as she walked to the kitchen. Mirielle never complained, and he didn't doubt that she would, tactfully, if he were taking advantage of her. She'd turned him into a husband almost effortlessly considering what an old and stodgy bachelor he had become, how bitter he had grown. It was a marvel that she had even attempted it.

She must have seen his crusty exterior as a challenge. She'd latched on tenaciously and turned away his pointed barbs and endless mumblings.

He climbed the stairs remembering the night at the restaurant when she'd pushed her stockinged toes up under the cuff of his trousers. He'd been so shocked, he didn't doubt that his face had flamed underneath his mask. It wasn't the only response that had been swift or fierce. He'd taken her down, into the vaults of bones, the kingdom of endless quiet. It had been as they were emerging, that he took his fate into his own hands and responded hungrily. Against a wall, he had touched her, kissed her, and seen in the depths of her eyes an answering longing.

She might have been curious, or simply lonely. Regardless, he had brought her to his own kingdom.

His queen of the darkness lay back on the pillows smiling as he entered the bedroom. She dropped her book onto her lap and stretched.

"Anais is heating up some of the chicken for us."

"It's good of her to stay late."

"I'll pay for a cab for her."

"She probably won't take it."

"Why?"

"She is like me when I came here. She hangs on to every sou. A woman on her own must look after her finances."

"Do you think we pay her enough?"

"I do. She wouldn't be adverse to a bonus now and then."

"I'll start with the cab. If she balks, I'll promise her more in her pay envelope on Friday." He perched on the bed. "She told me I was a good husband."

"Really?" she adopted a coy smile. "I'm not going to find you chasing my maid am I?"

"Me?" Erik chuckled. "No thank you. My wife would not find it amusing, I believe." He sobered. "She'd send me to bed with a hot water bottle. Faugh!"

Mirielle reached over and rubbed his back. "Poor darling."

They sat side by side on the bed and ate their dinner while Erik talked about the lesson at the Opera. He checked the bandage he had wrapped around her ankle and tucked her in. When she fell asleep, he eased her book from her fingers and put a marker in it. He kissed her cheek and snuggled up to her.

He dreamed of the Opera and a voice echoing down the long corridors. No matter how he searched, he didn't find its source. What he did find made him vow to have a long conversation with his maid.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mwahahahah! Ahem, 'scuse me. I can't resist. Le Plot est le thickening. **

**6.**

Anais Duvalier stepped down from the Omnibus, folding her market bag under her arm. There was one at the house of the Vachon's, but she liked to do some of her own shopping during the day as well. Taking advantage of a good price was important now that she had no man to help her.

Not that there weren't some appreciative stares and whistles as she passed. She was an attractive woman, but she was not white. Many of the people who looked at her saw a slave or possibly a field worker. As a domestic she found her place in society. In the Vachon home she had found a friend in her mistress and a master who doted on his wife, his harmonium, and God alone knew what down in that dungeon he retired to.

The first time she had seen him retreat down the stairs, she thought he might be going to light the furnace. Listening for any loud bangs or curses she dismissed the idea that swiftly as the minutes ran on and no man stomped back up the stairs. Madame didn't know what he did, and never asked. If something came to light during one of their conversations, she would fill in Anais later.

"A man needs a place of his own," she explained. "He seems to be happy to be there, and I'm happy he has something to do."

Anais agreed. Men underfoot were a nuisance. When they grew bored, they were worse than children. One could at least scold the child and send it outside to play.

Passing the brick wall that divided the sidewalk from the front garden of the Aulnay home, she ducked her head to hide a grin. The gardener was at it again. Bits of stems from rose bushes and soggy leaves hurtled through the air accompanied by grunts and curses.

She was nearly to the end of the wall when the man popped up. Surprised, she stopped to meet his staring face.

"Forgive me, Madame!" He whipped of his beret and held it to his breast. "I was not aware there was a lady present."

He was shorter than she, and sturdily built. Sandy hair stuck out in spikes to curl down to the empty spot on the top of his head. It looked fine despite the bushy rows of it that topped his brows. He looked very sincere.

She nodded politely and turned to resume her walk. The gardener matched her steps from his side.

"You work at the next house?"

Knowing it was better to make a friend, she smiled. "Yes, m'sieur."

"We are neighbors then." He grinned. "At least, we are neighbors during the day. My name is Augustin Rafinesque."

"Pleased to meet you. I am Anais Duvalier."

He slapped his hat on his thigh. "Every year it is the same. The old lady," he nodded towards the looming house." "She waits too long to prune the roses. So I come out in the wind and rain and do it. She'll keep me employed through the summer and then turns tight fisted and lets me go for the winter." He stood looking at her for a moment. "I don't mind. I have another dozen customers to pay the bills."

"I'll tell my employers. Perhaps the Madame would like a gardener."

"Thank you," he said softly. "Perhaps I can repay you with a coffee?"

A jolt of surprised pleasure made her grin widely. The man was looking for another Franc and flirting with her at the same time. "Perhaps." She turned away and headed towards the Vachon home.

Anais always took off her coat once she was in the kitchen. Swinging open the door, she stopped at the sight of her tall, somber looking master. "Good morning." She slid off her coat and turned to him.

"Anais, would you mind if I asked you something about your country?"

"No, m'sieur."

He straightened his arms and gave his attention to a cufflink. "If I embarrass you, please forgive me. I shall explain the reason I ask." He pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table and seated her.

"I already took some tea up to my wife." He paused and she glimpsed the shy smile he adopted when he referred to the Madame.

"Is her ankle all right?"

"Yes. I think she just needs to stay off of her feet for a few days." He folded elegantly long digits on the table. His flesh was pale against the dark color of his coat. "Can you tell me a little of your religion? You follow the Voodoo?"

"_Vodoun_," she corrected. "What do you wish to know?" She felt fear twisting her stomach. Was he going to dismiss her for being a heathen? She wore a small crucifix around her neck. It allayed the fear of the French, but was only a part of her belief.

"Everything." He chuckled. In his rich voice, it was difficult to stay worried. "I'm afraid I'm like a dog with a bone. I'll worry something down until I'm sure I've seen everything that it is constructed from.

Anais clenched her hands in her lap below the table top. "We believe in the one God,_Bondye_, the being from which everything comes. The universe was created in three worlds, the upper, middle, and lower, which are held together and breached by _Dambala_ and _Ayida Wedo_. What you would call heaven, we call _Gede_. The middle is the place of the spirits and of men. The lower is called the place of Abysmal Waters."

She paused as he seemed pointedly interested in her last words.

"Hell is a place of dark and water," he agreed.

"I—I might know what to explain if you tell me why you wish to learn."

He sighed, looking less the commanding figure and more a tired man. "I had a student," he explained. "She was perfect." His voice turned wistful, but he appeared to recover. "She's returned to sing again, but I don't think she is capable of it."

"What happened?"

His eyes looked infinitely sad. "She has lost her soul."

Anais knew she must be confusing her employer, for she could not help but smile. "But, it is perfect that she has come back!"

His gaze narrowed and he sat his chin upon his fist. "Why?"

"Who better than the _Baron Samedi_ to find her soul for her."

"Who is that?"

Now she felt a little confused. "It's you."

"Me?"

Anais dipped her gaze, respectful of his presence. "The first day I entered your house, I knew that this was a special place. In _Vodoun, _the_Crossroads _is where the worlds meet, the barriers between spirit and flesh are finer. Always men are attempting to touch the spirits. The _loa_ aid both the worlds. It is the desire of the Vodoun to become one with the spirits that we may achieve happiness. They are our friends and guides.

"Madame brought me across your threshold. I spied a tall man in black with the majesty of the Baron. He is one of the strongest of the spirits. He is the grave and the gravedigger, the master of death, and sex. A man in a dark tail coat, he smokes cigars and indulges his appetites. He eats voraciously, drinks much alcohol, and tells jokes to make men and women laugh at death. He is the master of the orgy that reminds us that we still live and bring forth the living before we meet him again."

"Goodness." He chuckled again. "You've described almost every patron of the Opera I've had the privilege of removing from the premises."

"M'sieur?"

"It's nothing." He waved a hand. "I had a dream, almost a nightmare. I could not find the source of a voice. I realized that the voice was calling for the body it belonged to, but the body was not there."

"Your student?"

"Yes. I believe so. She's been lacking something. She is a little older now, and when we parted it was not on the best of terms. I thought she was frightened of me once again. Now, I believe that some of the fire in her has burned low. I haven't been able to bring it back to life."

"How did you before?"

His smile appeared along the bottom of the mask. "I loved her. She needed it then, and so did I. Now, I cannot offer that to her. She is married, and I love my wife. I can't divide my heart; it isn't mine to give away. A small part perhaps, but not like the love I offered before."

Anais realized the pain of old loves. They haunted one like ghosts that starved, doomed to never be happy. "Then why is m'sieur asking me about the_Vodoun_?"

He sat back and crossed his arms. "How good of an actress are you?"

"What?"

"I need some ritual, or some such thing. Christine, my student, she is a wonderful young woman, but places far too much store in magic and things of that nature."

"You want me to perform Vodoun on her?"

"As I understand it is the job of these_ loa_ to help the person find their happiness, their oneness." He grinned, a mischievous slice full of promise. "I already gave her that damned husband of hers. Evidently a title doesn't make you a good husband. I shall rectify that."

"Are you going to have sex with her?"

He literally swallowed his next word. He shook his head solemnly. "That's up to the fop."

"The fop?"

"The boy—her husband. He's supposed to help in that respect." He sat forward. "You don't think he needs a shot of Vodoun as well do you? For—that sort of problem?"

It was her turn to laugh. "You are the Baron. You help him."

"I'm not going near that." He hmphed. "Will you help?"

The hangdog plea in his voice was mirrored in his strange eyes. Anais couldn't resist teasing her employer. "You know, sometimes the _loa_ lead an initiate to treasure…."

"My pleasure, Anais." He stood and straightened his coat. "I'll go ask Mirielle if she's hungry yet."

Anais watched his somber form disappear with the excitement of a child. Despite the dour mask and the eyes, the man exuded so much mischief it was impossible to believe he was not possessed by the Baron Samedi.

* * *

Mirielle moved her foot under the sheet. It felt all right at this point. Waiting for Erik to return had drawn out longer than she had expected. Was there some trouble?

She calculated the distance between the water closet and the bed, thinking she might try to hobble over herself when the door burst open.

Erik was grinning ear to ear. "Congratulate me," he announced in a smooth masculine voice that always made her melt. "I'm the lord of sex."

Why did that not surprise her?


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Christine sat on the bed and looked outside of the hotel room.

"Chris, are you all right?"

She gazed at her husband's handsome face. Raoul had been by her side since they left the Opera that night an eternity ago when she been stunned that Erik had released her. Despite being physically worn down from the constant barrage of questions, she'd nearly dropped at Erik's feet when he had slipped the ring upon her finger. "It's for you—you and your young man. I know you love him."

The tears all ready poured down her cheeks, dropped from her chin. The lost look in Erik's strange eyes had been one of resignation. He loved her enough.

Now she sat, miserably counting the days until the ship was to board and Raoul was to go to the Arctic. Hell was cold and dark, she believed. Not at all the burning wasteland of fire, it seared with the kiss of ice, stole the life from the body. Dreams had started, dreams of Raoul lost in the howling winds as the white death lured him from her.

She chided herself for being a stupid child, a silly young woman who was worried over nothing. He'd sailed before; it was his chosen profession until they had found one another again. Now it was the icy mistress who would pull him into the vast white emptiness.

"Did you sleep?" he asked, rubbing a hand down her back.

She longed to bury her face in his shirt, twist her hands in his coat and hide there, against his heart. Why couldn't she shrink to a small thing and live in his pocket. Why must he leave, as her Father had, as Erik had been forced to let her go.

She changed her thoughts to say what he wanted to hear. "I'm fine. I'm just worried over the lessons."

"Chris, you haven't sang like this for over a year. As he says, you are going to have to take small steps lest you ruin your voice."

Her eyes misted. Raoul was so gentle with her that at times it hurt. It was why she couldn't bear the thought of his leaving. His strong hand would be gone, his warmth, even his mumbling snores that made her smile at him in the night as she stood looking out at the lights of Paris. She felt as if her life was being leached away. "I'm afraid."

"Of him?" Raoul's gaze sharpened.

"No, not him." She felt a smile spreading her features. "He's," she paused to picture Erik. "He's alive, Raoul. Like he has seized something magical and held on."

Surprisingly, Raoul smiled. "Yes. I've talked to Mirielle. They are mad for each other."

"Mad? I don't think he's mad anymore. Can falling in love do that?"

"Chris, watch them when they look at each other. I have to say whatever it is between them is deep, deep as their souls."

"Raoul, that's beautiful. Do we look like that?"

Her husband smiled, a dimple grew near his lips and she had her answer. The morning grew a little brighter.

* * *

Erik felt his humor deflate as Mirielle sat on the edge of the bed looking contemplative. "What? Can't I even make my wife smile?"

"You can't shock me with what I already know."

He crossed to the bed and lifted one of her hands, placing a kiss upon it. "Thank you, my dear. It is my distinct pleasure," he placed a kiss upon her wrist, "to see to your pleasure."

"Could you see me to the water closet first?"

He offered a hand for her to lever herself up with. "I've had a chat with Anais."

"Oh, goodness. You didn't tell her you were the lord of sex did you?"

"No, she informed me that I am possessed by the Baron. That makes me the lord of death and graves."

Mirielle stared up at her husband. "Where did the sex part come from?"

He looked down at her intense blue eyes, turbulent with some unspoken question. A rare bloom of humor made him grin. "Why, Mirielle, you aren't jealous are you?"

She rested her body against the door jamb and Erik envied the wood. She raised a hand and lay it upon her bosom which was nicely followed by the contour of her thin silk gown. The dark henna had faded to a red, but still captured his gaze. The outrageous little flirt knew exactly what she was doing. She smiled. "No, your lordship."

The door was closed in his face, and it was a good thing, too. His wife might die of starvation before he let her out of the bedroom.

"Thank God for outrageous women."

* * *

The lesson was a wash out once again. Privately, Erik bled for Christine. A startled panic rose in her eyes when she missed a note. She was like a child in the dark, searching, shifting, looking everywhere but not finding. Despite a brave face, he could tell that his little soprano was in danger of folding in upon herself in despair.

He understood it more than others. Despair had been his dread companion for an eternity.

The other singers had shown up, eager to practice, hanging on his every word. Several of them watched in awe as he approached Christine and corrected her easily. A few watched, obviously envious of her voice. There were a few off stage that wore sneers as they watched her. The phoenix was struggling up from the ashes and they reveled in it.

There seemed to be a breaking point in her voice now. She climbed high with ease, but ran out of breath. Part of that was the lack of practice, part was what intrigued him.

de Chagny was in the audience, arms crossed, watching his wife. He would. Erik could hardly blame him, though. He had been willing to let the boy bake in the catroptic chamber, while his own fevered ranting frightened Christine.

Good lord, he'd been a desperate fool. For love, for hope, he had nearly killed two men and threatened to kill himself and Christine for love. The idea of it made him shudder. He had been monstrous.

Erik looked down the line of faces, and dismissed them. "You're looking a bit wilted today. We shall try this again next week, here on the stage, unless the managers call for a rehearsal."

People filed past, still a little in awe of him. There were two men in the audience talking to one another across the auditorium from de Chagny. Erik looked them over surreptitiously. They weren't agents, and he doubted they were interested in the theater at all. They were—straight laced. Police or soldiers, he decided. Perhaps that annoying Captain still had a bone to pick with him.

"Excuse me."

Erik turned in response to the voice that had long filled his dreams. "Yes?"

Christine licked her lips, which annoyed him to a fine degree. A Diva did not need chapped lips.

"I'm having some trouble."

"You're reaching."

"I can do it."

"Not this way. You have it in your head that you have lost those notes, Madame. Searching for them will not produce them. Confidence will." He lowered his voice. "It was simple once. What makes you afraid?"

Her lips clamped shut and her gaze searched his. "How did you do it?"

Footsteps approached, and Erik knew it was her husband. He sketched a nod. "Good afternoon, Madame." He turned away, but could imagine her tucking her arm through her husband's and following him out of the building. She'd smile serenely as befitted a lady of station and a goddess of the stage. The echo of her words filled the cab he took home.

* * *

Erik hung up his coat and tossed his hat with a snap of the wrist to send it spinning to catch on an awaiting hook. One must never give up practicing their skills. Part was to stay resourceful and part was to earn a lopsided smile from Anais, who would shake her head.

Wasn't the Baron supposed to be a playful entity? Where was the fun in life if you lived it with no humor?

He took the stairs two at a time, slowing near the top and pushing open the door quietly in case Mirielle was napping. Happily, she was reclining on some pillows in a loose day dress and reading. She smiled when she saw him and dropped her book.

"How was your lesson?"

Erik shrugged. "It went all right. But as I left, Christine said the oddest thing to me."

"What?"

"She said, 'How did you do it'."

"What were you talking about?"

"Her voice. She's reaching for the higher notes." Her sat on the edge of the bed and explained, "You can't reach, you must make it happen."

"Hmmm. Don't try, do?"

"Precisely. Not to say there aren't some absolutely dreadful results, but eventually the confidence is there and the note happens. You just can't sneak up on it."

"Is she? Sneaking, I mean."

"It's like she's throwing stones while dizzy. She's hitting all around, just not on target."

They sat in silence before Mirielle replied, "Erik, she said, 'How _did_ you do it'. Not 'How do you do it."

He sat with his elbows on his knees and started at the pattern on the rug next to the bed. Was there much to be found in so subtle and small a word? The question was what it was that he had done.

He tired of thinking in circles and turned to his wife. "How is your ankle?"

"It doesn't hurt. I've kept off of it as you told me to."

"Good girl. We'll have you dancing in no time."

She lay back with the slight Madonna smile on her lips. "We haven't danced."

"I haven't had instruction."

"You mean you haven't had a partner."

"I have a partner now. She's a beautiful, mysterious woman."

Murielle's eyes grew large. "Goodness. What did you do today that warrants a comment like that?"

"What do you mean?"

She smirked and Erik sensed disbelief in her expression.

"I mean you didn't pull any of your special talents on Raoul, did you?"

"I gave lessons! That popinjay sat in the audience glowering at me. I could almost hear his teeth grinding." He grinned at the thought, but it melted quickly. "Raoul? Since when has his Holiness become_Raoul_?" He examined his wife's face. "I suppose you are _Mirielle_ now?"

She shrugged, and he heard himself humph again. He was starting to annoy himself.

"He's curious. Isn't Christine?"

"I don't know, we hardly talk. What do you mean curious?"

"About us."

"You mean about me."

She pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

"He had his arm around you," he spat. He leaned across the distance and put his face close to his wife's. "Tell that bluestocking Bluebeard your dance card is full."

"Is it?"

Butter wouldn't melt in that delicious little cupid's bow of a pout. "Yes, it is." He reminded his wife who her partner was.

Anais only grinned and handed him their dinner on a tray before she left for the evening.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

Anais was just exiting the omnibus when she saw Augustin Rafinesque. This time he was helping load a wagon with what looked like the pieces of a bed. He stopped and doffed his cap to her with a slight smile.

The man appeared to never stand still. A gardener and now doing a little handyman work as well? A man who valued hard work and was always looking for more of it had the one trait that lured a Creole woman like a bee to honey. Ambition. The _loa_ would favor a man of commerce. It took energy and confidence to keep a man juggling a variety of jobs and completing them all.

She looked back one last time to see Augustin and the other fellow raise the gate on the wagon. He was a sturdy fellow.

Augustin Rafinesque watched the Creole maid walk past. Anais—it sounded like a name that would grace a rare and exquisite flower. She was tall and willowy and moved so gracefully she might be dancing along the street. He sighed and closed his eyes. She was art walking.

* * *

Erik buttoned his vest and sat next to Mirielle at the edge of the bed. "What would you like for breakfast?"

She heaved a great sigh. "To go downstairs."

"Let me see your ankle." He crouched down and examined her foot, her heel, and gently rotated the ankle. "How is that?"

"It feels better."

He looked up into her hopeful face. "Bored?"

"Terribly," she said with an apologetic wince.

"Let's find you a frock, and I'll walk you downstairs. You must promise to remain on the settee. I don't want you hobbling around the house. You might overdo it, and wind up back in bed."

"Yes, doctor." She smiled sweetly.

He spent the next few minutes holding up one dress after the other for Mirielle to look at. She'd point to one, and then have him being another one back out.

"Oh, I'll just slip into the day dress I had on yesterday. It's just for the morning."

He lounged by the water closet door and watched Mirielle. There might be a lot of men who disdained this mundane task, but he enjoyed watching his wife. Everything she did, she did for him, and Erik appreciated it.

He also appreciated all the cotton and silk, the ribbon, and the little buttons that dressed layer after layer of clothing. It was a shame to cover up what God had given her, but Mirielle was just as pleasing with her clothing on. The fabric, the ruffles, all became a part of her, swishing along as she walked, a wave of color and rich textures.

Women were beautiful things to look at. It had been his pleasure to learn that many of them were as beautiful when they conversed. He might never grow tired of the way Mirielle looked at life. Erik wondered if she worked at finding the humorous side of things, or if it was just something she had developed over the years.

A mature woman was like a taste of fine wine poised in a splendid crystal glass. There were hints of flavors and spices to tantalize, to seduce him to once again take a taste. It had only come to him now, when Christine had returned, that he understood so little about a woman. Meeting Mirielle, his expectations had been dashed. She had expertly turned his world on its ear and left him following a step behind, pondering how she had done it.

She smiled and turned to him and his breath caught again. For all his genius, he had not known that it was her he was destined to find, her he was searching for. If Nadir hadn't badgered him—he couldn't bear to think what would have occurred.

Perhaps Christine might grow into a woman like Mirielle. Would time teach her? Or would the years beat her down? Something was bothering his little nightingale.

"I know that look," Mirielle said as she clasped his hand.

"Sorry. You know how I am when I'm working something through in my mind."

"Can I help?"

Erik cupped her elbow in his hand and started walking her slowly towards the stairs. "I just can't understand what is wrong with Christine."

They took a step down, Mirielle holding onto the banister with one hand and his arm with the other. "You don't think all of this is a little too much of a shock for her, do you?"

"A surprise," he conceded. "I know that she is professional enough to start putting things in a proper perspective. But I just get this feeling when I listen to her."

"What, Erik?"

"You might think this is odd…."

She chuckled softly. "From you, darling?"

He stretched a hand in front of her to halt her step. "Ha, ha. Every woman should be so blessed with an unusual husband." He purposely disdained the word odd. He dropped his voice low, "I'll make you pay for that later, Madame Vachon."

She replied with a breathy, mewling sound. "Oh! I shall through myself upon your mercy!"

Erik chuckled. "Little rogue, there is no mercy for you. I'll lock you in the boudoir with the Maestro."

Mirielle waggled her brows. "Two men? I should eat well today to keep up my stamina."

Erik snorted, then stopped himself. First it was humphing and now snorting. He was becoming a font of useless noise. At this rate, he'd be jabbering in a few months.

Anais Duvalier stood with the feather duster in hand at the bottom of the stairs. "Good morning. Can I get Madame some coffee?"

"Good morning, Anais," Erik replied. "I've brought Madame down for breakfast. She's getting bored." He guided Mirielle to the settee. "Didn't we purchase a footstool while we were buying up half of Paris?"

Anais produced the little footstool and arranged the bottom of Mirielle's skirt. "What can I start cooking for Madame?"

Mirielle shrugged. "Oh, anything."

Anais adopted a thoughtful look. "When I was a girl, Maman would make Banana porridge."

"What is that?" Erik felt a little dubious remembering his mother's overcooked, lumpy attempts at breakfast.

"Stewed bananas." Anais smiled. "My Maman was a sweet woman, but I grew to hate stewed bananas. I always preferred the cooked toast. You take old slices of bread and soak it in eggs, cream, the juice of the orange and some cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar."

"Oh, that sounds delicious," Mirielle replied. She barely batted and eye before she asked, "You were saying you thought something was odd about Christine?"

Erik fetched a small table over for Mirielle and brought her a cup of coffee. "I had an idea yesterday. I'd like to ask Anais to help with Christine's problem."

Mirielle appeared surprised. "Is that when she told you that you were the manifestation of this low person?"

"Loa," he corrected. "The Baron is the most powerful of all the Loa." He sat down beside his wife. "He has a paramour, you know. She's the Maman Brigit."

"Does that prove that even the lordly require a wife to keep them in line?"

Erik had to smile, for Mirielle already appeared happier now that she was downstairs. She always seemed happy in his company, to his continual surprise. Now that she was tossing out sharp, bright little comments to catch him with, he realized his wife loved to tease him. She only needed an epee in hand and a mask of her own to finish his impression of her verbal repartee.

She liked to keep him on his toes.

It was refreshing. They argued over Opera, and talked over the newspapers. She'd knit while he complained about the book he was reading. No matter what tone he took, she was ready to wade in with a nod or a comment.

He had to confess he enjoyed the teasing the most.

"God made you beautiful so that men would love you," he conceded.

She slid a saucy glace at him. "God made men incapable of finding where they put anything. That is why you love us."

"Mirielle," he said, feigning indignant surprise. "That is part of the mating ritual."

"What?"

"You see, men have possessions they gather to entice a female. They spread them around their lair, hoping the female will be intrigued."

She burst out laughing. "Erik! No woman is intrigued by lost socks, misplaced watch fobs, or missing collars and cufflinks."

"No?"

She shook her head. "No."

He sat back on the settee. "Well, I'd have to agree to those. I presume that is why our ancestors came with offerings of food for their women."

"Which they promptly expected to be skinned, cleaned, and cooked."

He was feeling afloat on a sinking vessel. "Women like furs though."

"Not if you have to peel it off of some poor animal."

The water was about to swamp over the gunwales, so he decided to guide it back to its original destination. "I see. Back to Christine's dilemma."

"She did look a little flustered on the stage, startled actually, when she released a rather breathy note."

"She was panicked. I should know—I've seen that look on her face before."

Mirielle raised a hand, to gently touch his masked cheek. "And I saw that hug she gave you. Erik, there was something there."

It occurred to him then that he had felt annoyed with Raoul touching Mirielle because he was ever so slightly, in a far, far, corner of his mind, locked away in a miniscule box, just a wee bit jealous. It hadn't occurred to him that Mirielle might not have been pleased at his display of sudden familiarity with another woman.

It would have been sheer pleasure not so long ago to think up tortures for the Vicomte over an incident like this. The idea of Mirielle holding his feet to the fire for embracing Christine left him, for the first time, speechless. He couldn't even manage a humph, let alone a weak protest.

To his great relief, Mirielle smiled, an indulgent smile that said she understood. With his jaw newly unlocked, he said the only thing he could. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Anais came to his rescue with breakfast.


	9. Chapter 9

**9.**

Nadir couldn't help but stare at the lovely woman just inside the door. She was tall and willowy, having a graceful tilt to her head and an easy smile. He stumbled over his own tongue. "The, uh, are the uh…." He took a step back and glanced at the house. Yes, it was the house Erik had purchased. "Are the Vachons in?"

"Yes, M'seur. Whom shall I say is calling?"

He took off his hat and handed into her graceful fingers. "Nadir."

"One moment, please." She smiled serenely and with a quick bob of her head, turned and left him staring.

He was still staring when she returned. This time she wore a crooked grin. "M'seur says I should toss you out, but Madame bids you come to the parlor."

Nadir rolled his eyes heavenward. "Allah alone understands what that woman sees in Erik." He took a step but thought it prudent to ask, "He is teasing, isn't he? I mean to say, my French is not good, but he is not doing a snit is he?"

"A snit?"

"He isn't angry is he? I'm sorry—but what is your name?"

The dark skinned beauty gave him a curtsy. "I am Anais Duvalier, the maid."

"Since when does Erik have a maid?"

She shrugged. "Maybe he had a snit and decided to hire one."

Nadir brushed a finger along his mustache and wondered if the honeymoon was indeed over. Perhaps Mirielle had come to some semblance of sense. Erik was not the easiest of companions. Now that the rumor was circulating around the Opera that Christine Daae had returned, Nadir worried that Mirielle might not be comfortable with the news.

The maid added quietly, "M'seur has brought his wife down for breakfast. She's been in bed since her injury."

"What! What has happened to Madame?"

His question was answered by Erik, who stood in the doorway to the parlor holding a cup of coffee. "Ah, Nadir. Care for a cup of coffee? Mirielle and I were just having some of Anais'--"

"What happened? You didn't argue did you? Erik—you have Satan's own temper when you are angry, but I never thought you might…" Nadir lifted hands in a pleading gesture. "You didn't mean all of that nonsense about roosters."

Erik's strange eyes traveled over his features. "What on earth are you talking about? Neither one of us has a rooster, you ninny. I purchased a home not a farm. What have you been smoking in that hookah?"

Exasperated, Nadir shot a sidelong glance towards the maid. He took hold of Erik's arm, pulling him towards the front door. Lowering his voice he told Erik, "You remember. We were discussing keeping women in line."

"We were?" By the tilt of his head it appeared Erik didn't remember.

"Erik! You have a better memory than an elephant. You can't have forgotten when you wanted to know where Mirielle worked."

"Ah." A light dawned in Erik's already tawny eyes. "I do remember. I'd tried to send Mirielle away. Thank God it didn't work."

"Yes, well, that's a watery bridge. Now what is this about her being injured?"

Erik lifted a hand towards the parlor. "Come see for yourself, Nadir. She's only just turned her ankle, but I wish her to be off of it as much as possible. We were at the Opera and the most damnable thing happened--."

Before he could finish, Nadir pulled him out of the front door shooting the maid an apologetic smile.

Erik dug in his heels once they were on the threshold. "What are you doing?"

Nadir pulled the door closed. "Brace yourself. There is a rumor that Christine Daaé has returned to Paris."

Erik's head tilted, his eyes flaring bright as they caught the morning sun. "I know. I've seen her."

Surprise sucked the air out of Nadir's lungs. He thought he must be gaping like a fish, his mouth working but no sound coming forth.

"It was the most damnable thing. There I was, Mirielle in my arms, we'd just gotten home after the reception, and who but Christine and Raoul were in my living room."

"Allah," Nadir moaned. He sat a hand on Erik's shoulder. "You didn't…."

Erik shrugged thin but very capable shoulders. "I couldn't believe it. First that she actually came back and second that she was interrupting my nuptials."

"You didn't, uh, you didn't commit any atrocities, did you?"

"No."

Nadir almost wilted in relief.

"I thought about it, mind you," Erik continued. "If I hadn't had my arms around my wife I might have entertained a little mayhem. Seeing that boy again--."

"What jinn possessed her to return?" Nadir demanded.

Erik's smile flitted at the bottom of his mask. He took hold of his companions arm and tugged him away from the door to stop before the window of the parlor. "That one." He lifted a hand and waved.

Inside, the maid said something and Mirielle's head appeared above the settee. She smiled and waved in return.

Nadir gave a brief wave. "I don't understand."

"I don't think any of us do, Nadir. We're talking about a woman, you know."

* * *

Mirielle turned back on the settee. "Could you bring some coffee, Anais? They shouldn't be out there long."

"Why are they outside?"

"Oh, man talk. Nadir is warning Erik that Christine has returned and he is replying that he knows and has seen her. Nadir will say something like 'Allah' and lift his hands, and look like his favorite dog has died. Then Erik will merely wave a hand and tell him nothing happened. At least no blood was spilled. That sort of thing."

Anais watched the window. The visitor did throw up his hands a time or two. Her employer nodded slowly and seemed to sigh heavily, his shoulders raising and sinking. He pointed towards the parlor and finally captured his friend's arm and pushed him towards the door.

"I'll just go get that coffee, Madame."

* * *

"She put the ad in the newspaper?"

"Yes. She will have to explain it to you. She did to us as we all stared at one another."

Details did not matter to Nadir as much as the reaction of the man who stood before him, kicking at something with his toe. Erik was never one to share his innermost feelings. He preferred to meet life with caustic barbs that dripped with irony. For the sake of a long and convoluted friendship, Nadir asked, "Are you all right?"

The dark mask lifted, Erik's fey eyes reflected the sun. "I'm happy, Nadir. Every day dawns with my wife's smile. The sun sets when her eyes close."

"That is very prophetic."

"_Poetic_."

"I thought that was one of those things you slap on an injury."

Erik's rich chuckle echoed in the space before the front door. "That's a poultice, old friend."

Nadir hesitated before the door. "I'm so happy for you."

Erik drew back. "Don't you dare kiss me! I let you at the wedding. Once is enough!" He turned Nadir and planted hands on his shoulders. "Let's get you some coffee."

"As long as it isn't yours, it should be divided."

"_Divine_," Erik corrected.

* * *

Nadir reached for Mirielle's hands and placed kisses on them. "Oh, Mirielle, my dear lady. What has this foolish husband of yours let you do?"

"It all occurred because of my heel breaking at the Opera," she began.

Anais brought him coffee, which proved to be a delicious brew. Nadir took a sip and glanced around the house. "It looks like you've been busy. Much more homely now." He sat on the chair and beamed at Mirielle. She appeared quite happy. "So, why were you at the Opera?"

"For Christine's lesson."

"Yes. I had heard a rumor that she had returned." He studied Erik's wife. "Did you put that ad in the paper?"

"Yes." Her reply seemed confident for a woman who had invited a younger and once beloved rival into their lives again.

"Why?"

"I felt it was important for them and for Erik to get beyond what happened."

It sounded logical, but then Mirielle had not been there that night. Even from what she knew, she had no idea of the depth of Erik's despair, and Christine's horror as she saw both he and her fiancé in the catroptic chamber. They had all survived the longest night of their lives.

"I'm surprised," Nadir mumbled.

"I have agreed to continue teaching her." Erik walked behind the settee with his cup.

"She had her first lesson," Mirielle added. "It turned into a lesson for several people. Erik did it on stage and it was most interesting. He really is a very good teacher."

Very good, Nadir thought to himself. Seeing Christine in public must be Erik's way of allaying any concerns of Mirielle's. "Is the Vicomte with her?"

"Yes, they are married now. It was Raoul who caught me as I fell. I was so embarrassed."

Erik had almost perched on the settee when he shot upwards and returned to prowl along the back. Nadir sat his cup down, thinking it would be better not to listen to it rattle in his shaking hand. "The Vicomte?"

"Yes. If he hadn't been quick to slide an arm around my waist I might have pitched down the stairs." Mirielle turned a radiant smile on her husband. "Erik has taken such good care of me!"

Nadir wondered briefly if Christine was as upset over this turn as Erik was. He needn't have worried over Erik resurrecting his feelings for the young woman. He was obviously unhappy that Raoul de Chagy had come to his wife's rescue. What a curious turn the story of Erik had taken.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** _Phantom Variations: Tales From The World of the Opera Ghost_ is now available through LuLu. The proceeds are donated and it features the work of moi as well as Waytoointoerik, Kryss LaBrynn, HDKingsbury, OperaLover, and more! See www.phantomvariations./

**10.**

"Well." Nadir picked up his cup again. "I don't suppose the lessons will take long, will they Erik? After all Christine was singing quite beautifully on the stage before things –you know."

Erik shook his head slowly and Nadir again felt his hopes dashed. He shot a questioning glance towards Mirielle, who had turned to watch her husband as he wore a rut into the new carpet.

Erik's pose adopted his thoughtful mien. Nadir had watched him over the years, noting every small adjustment of shirt cuffs, and tugs on his vest. When Erik was truly deep in thought, he started at the floor as he moved, always on his feet as if he was attempting to gain ground on the problem.

What raised the hairs on the back of his neck was when he'd seen Erik produce a deadly looking blade and stalk back and forth, back and forth, all the time the light running along the honed edge. He'd done it a number of times in Persia. The person he was deliberating about was never found. While the Khanum was beside herself with a malicious glee, Erik had gone to his apartment and sat in a dark corner of his bedroom, staring out of the window.

Although Nadir had always listened to Erik grouse over something—it was when Erik grew quiet that he knew something was truly bothering him. Over their time he had witnessed his illness and his loss of Christine and nearly his sanity. The man who walked behind the settee wool-gathering was not the same man. The light of love had melted the rage and forged it into an awesome weapon. Nothing on earth or in heaven would ever hurt Mirielle.

Except where it concerned the Vicomte, perhaps? It could be chagrin rather than rivalry. Nadir struggled to keep a straight face. Erik was jealous.

"Mirielle, will you be all right if Nadir and I take a trip downstairs?"

"Of course, darling. I'll just finish my coffee."

Erik placed a quick kiss upon her forehead. "We'll be right back."

Nadir held on to his cup as he got to his feet. "Is there any more of this?"

"We can ask Anais," Erik said as he walked towards the kitchen door.

Nadir took on last glimpse of Mirielle sitting with a bemused look on her face. On impulse he winked at her.

The kitchen smelled of rich spices and the coffee sat upon the large stove. The woman who had introduced herself as the maid nodded as they walked in. Erik pulled open the door to the cellar. "Come on, Nadir. It's time for strategy."

"Oh? What are we going to do?"

Erik reached the landing and turned down the last few stairs, moving unerringly thought the darkness. "We are going to perform voodoo."

"What?"

"Voodoo, Nadir. It's a sort of religion that has sprung up in the Caribbean. A lot of people think it's a lot of superstitious nonsense."

"Where have I heard that before?" Nadir mused. "The Opera staff and patrons believed the same thing about a certain Phantom."

"Precisely. I'm going to use some of the rituals to entice Christine into revealing what it is that has her in such dire straits." Erik paused. "You haven't seen her. She looks the same on the outside, but it is as if something is choking her."

"Erik, you know I ask this as a friend. Is she in fear of the Ghost again?"

"No. We are getting past that now, and have Mirielle to thank for it."

Nadir sat his cup on the edge of a work table that Erik had covered in an assortment of objects revealed by the sconce that Erik turned up. "How are you feeling about it, though? Does it hurt to see her?"

"No." Erik turned, the faint light crossing his eyes in a flash like heat lightning. "I don't understand it. It should hurt." He pointed towards his chest. "It should hurt here. I'm not sure how I feel."

"What about her?"

The dark silk covering shimmered as Erik turned his face. "She hasn't said a word. She's just as concerned as I am that something is wrong with Christine."

Relief flooded Nadir. He meant to ask after Christine, but Erik had replied about Mirielle. With his wife at the forefront of his thoughts, it didn't appear that Christine Daaé would come in and upset Erik's carefully tended apple cart Even if it was the same little wagon that nearly toppled on a rickety wheel and been driven by a misguided vendor.

"What did you have in mind, Erik?"

His companion stopped, and crossed arms over his chest. On the table lay a square of purple colored silk that he lifted at a corner. "I need to pay someone a visit, a woman that Anais has found for me. I'm going to ask her to guide me through enough voodoo to set Christine back on the path."

"All right. When can we arrange to see her?"

"We?"

"Come, come, Erik," Nadir scoffed. "There is nothing more you enjoy than showmanship. You don't think I can turn you loose in Paris looking for magic spells by yourself." He paused and finished his coffee. "I don't trust you to not pick up something noxious for Raoul."

Erik chuckled. "You know me so well. But I promise that I won't lay a finger on him. Unless his patrician fingers find their way to my wife again."

"That bothers you?"

"I'm supposed to catch her! I'm her husband and it is my God given duty to make sure she is protected. Safe. She nearly tripped she told me, Nadir." His voice quieted. "Can you imagine what would happen if I lost her now?"

"No," Nadir replied solemnly. "That is the path to madness and we have spent enough time in the land of mirrors in the night."

"Nightmares," Erik corrected.

"You are the head of a family now Erik. They will all look to you. I believe after meeting them, they would all take care of you. I held your grandson, remember?"

"Henri?" Erik seemed to revive. "Yes. I would take care of my family. I'm just not sure…."

"Ah, ah, none of that." Held help up a finger before the dark mask. "Shame upon you and your ancestors! Those young people look to you as their new father. If anything happens to Mirielle they will need you to hold them together." He paused with a great sigh. "The two of you will enjoy a happy life. Stop being a morose old curmudgeon and enjoy your life."

The mask dipped coyly. "Old habit."

"Be happy," he commanded, knowing full well that Erik would be Erik until life slowly wore this layer of him away like a storm washed stone. "And come and get me when you visit this voodoo woman."

"I have another lesson at the opera today. Will you attend?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Nadir turned to the stairs but Erik's voice halted him. "I've always wondered if you were stepping on my shadow to prevent me from unleashing more havoc, or if you were truly my friend."

Nadir shrugged. "Call me insatiably curious. Fate chains us together but it does not have to be in a dungeon."

Erik's eyes seemed to glow with fierce intensity. "Where did you get that?"

"What?"

"Fate chains us….."

"I don't know. Something I read I think."

Erik pulled out his pocket watch. "It's only just past nine. We have time to prepare."

"Oh? Do I need to do something?"

"You can help me make sure the traps are disabled."

Nadir halted on the stair, almost aghast. "Traps? Are you seeing Christine in the house under the Opera?"

"No, no. This isn't her lesson. This one is for the pair of the guards who have been lurking around the building since the attempt to blow it up."

"Surely they aren't hoping to bring you in. I thought between the managers and Percival that had been resolved."

Erik waved a hand up the stairs indicating for Nadir to continue upwards. "Perhaps everyone does not feel that way."

One foot in front of the other, Nadir pondered the obstinacies of men in uniform, and how this might mean more trouble for Erik.

Anais looked over her shoulder as they entered the kitchen.

"Thank you. The coffee was superb." Nadir sat the cup by the sink where she stood.

"You are welcome, M'sieur."

Erik stopped before the kitchen door. "Anais, I shall be going out in a moment. Check on my wife for me, would you."

"Certainly. I picked up some more yarn for her."

"Good."

Anais dried her hands as the door swung closed. For a moment, it swung inward, the tall form of her employer appeared striding away. It swung again and he was gone. Something about it left goosebumps to rise along her arms.

Clucking her tongue she picked up the coffee cup the swarthy man had used and submerged it in the dishwater. She really should know better than to be surprised about anything her employer did.

* * *

Mirielle offered a hand for Nadir, who kissed her knuckles. "Leaving so soon?"

Erik stepped forward. "I was going to take a quick look around the Opera. Nadir is coming with me."

"Is something amiss?"

"Just giving some thought to training the new security people that the managers are bringing in. Nadir has many years of experience with the police as you know." Erik held her hand a moment, looking at her as she smiled up at him. "We want everyone safe."

"Of course." She closed her eyes as Erik bent and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you for the coffee, Mirielle." Nadir sketched a slight bow. "It is always a pleasure."

"It is so good to see you, Nadir. Drop in again."

The two men started for the front hall. If it wasn't for the slight change in the temperature from the door opening, Mirielle wouldn't have known they had exited the house. She turned to look at her leg and her cursed ankle, wondering what she was going to miss.


	11. Chapter 11

**11.**

"Look! Footsteps!" The guardsman held the bulls-eye lantern aloft over the dusty floor.

Percival dit La Fougère bit back a testy retort. With the last reserves of his patience, he pointed out, "Those are yours."

"They can't be." The man huffed, puffing up his chest as if he was ready to come to blows.

"Have we been in this corridor before?" Percival tapped his left foot. Down low on the wall was a line of blue colored chalk. He'd handed the disbelieving guards each a piece and directed them to mark each passage they took as they searched for the lake and the Opera's Phantom.

"Uh. Yes."

Percival stepped forward and planted his boot next to the footprint. "Not mine. Has to be yours."

"It could be the Phantom," the combatant guard insisted.

"Not hardly. He doesn't wear Boots. He visits an old Italian cobbler over in—."

"You know all of this! How?"

Percival shrugged. "Listen, I've been in your shoes—boots I should say. I was foolish enough to believe that I could best the old Ghost. After all my attempts and the enormity of time wasted getting lost down here, I took up his offer of a truce."

"Truce? With a madman?"

Percival heard the scoff in the man's tone, but his gaze held a wary interest. "He was the one who gave me my first piece of chalk."

He turned and waited for the other two guards who were taking up a respectable distance from the corridor stood. They weren't as young and he hoped not as eager to mire themselves in one of Erik's traps. Lord above knew how many there were or if he had taken the time to stroll through below floors and disarm them all.

Privately Percival hoped the one who was now staring down at his own boot prints would find his way into the sewers. The smell, let alone the embarrassment, would be an apt way of thumbing his own nose at Guard Captain Daubigeon. The man was growing almost fanatical in his attempts to track down Erik. It had been a blessing that the managers held enough political clout to insist that the Guards at least give Erik his honeymoon. Although Percival doubted Mirielle would have stood by for that sort of interruption.

He could hardly forget the look of anguish on her normally happy features as she rushed to Erik upon the stage the night of the attempt. It gave him a warm feeling to think Erik had finally found someone who received his acerbic wit as if it truly were funny. It would be nice to find a woman…. He stepped back into the adjoining corridor feeling tired and twice a fool.

He'd never find a woman under the Opera. They were all upstairs, ensconced upon the dark clad arms of dinner jackets, smiling under the weight of their diamonds. Even if he appeared above during a performance, he would probably only frighten some poor creature. The years of sleeping late and working in the night left him nearly as pale as Erik. He'd started a man and faded to a ghost.

"Come on. You need to retrace your way back to the last tee intersection."

"Why? Are you attempting to get us lost?"

Percival turned a disbelieving look upon the man. "Why attempt what you have done so thoroughly?" With a disgusted sound he left the group. He threw up a hand. "You are going to insist on finding the lake. If you go back to the tee you will be on the correct path. If you don't…." He let the silence swallow his words. "If you don't you will be on your way to meeting the Siren."

"Who is that?" One of the quieter Guards asked quickly.

"It protects him."

"It? You must be joking. We are more than a match for any man."

"Woman," Percival corrected. Softly he added, "At least she appears to be a woman."

"A woman! You hope to frighten us off, don't you? A woman! How is it that she isn't lost down here as well?"

"She's been here forever." Percival led them down the hall and stopped before a span of bricks that sank back slightly from the face of the others around them. He pushed open the shutters of the lantern and lifted it high. Behind him the three Guards stood silent.

He could remember the pins and needles feeling of superstitious dread that had crawled up his spine when he had first seen her. Hideous of aspect, she was none the less compelling. Her body arose from a set of tentacles. Four arms graced her shapely torso, each ending in clawed fingers that were tied together with webbing. Her hair coiled in thick loops around a surprisingly delicate face. It was her eyes, open, almost sightless, carved to resemble bottomless wells of night that marked her as truly formidable. That and the small pointed teeth that she bared in a challenging smile.

It was one of Erik's carvings. If he ever truly saw such a sight, he never admitted it. He only smiled that annoying little smirk of his showing his own teeth at the bottom of his mask. His eyes would light with humor, but their burning intensity warned Percival that questions were not appropriate when discussing a lady.

He waved a hand to the corridor that led off into the darkness behind them. "Her domain is there. I'd be most courteous to her if I were you." With a smile he knew must look positively wicked he added, "She might be hungry."

He turned, his coat swirling about him and silently walked away.

* * *

"What was that?" Abd al-Majiid Junaibi Nadir Khan shot a glance at his companion.

Erik's strange face lifted. "Good heavens. I think they've attempted the lake."

"You didn't—I mean did you perchance leave the trap to the sewers in working order?"

In the light of the lantern, which he needed to see with, Nadir studied Erik's eyes. They looked almost normal sometimes in the dimness below. Maybe that was why Erik had retreated into the darkness from the beginning.

Erik shook his head. "I've shut down nearly all of them. That one was first. I wouldn't take the chance that Mirielle would stumble across it."

"Oh, yes. I think she would not be amused."

"Nor would I," Erik added. "Why I'd have to scrub the filth off of everything! The boat, the house, the tub."

"Your wife?"

Erik actually looked uncomfortable. "I don't think she'd want that. I know I wouldn't. My wife has a temper, you know."

It was on the tip of his tongue to laugh, but Nadir quelled it. "You would have to be bringing her breakfast in bed for a long time for that one."

"I wouldn't mind that. I just wouldn't want her unhappy with me." He stopped as if a thought had insinuated itself. "She might not talk to me. You know how I hate the quiet."

"Erik, she'd never do that." Nadir rested a hand upon his companion's shoulder. "First, they get very huffy and then they clean. You'd hear her muttering to herself for a while. I think they do that to give themselves time to frame their arguments. Then they come tell you how you have offended them. Quite righteously as well, I can tell you."

"Then I apologize?"

Nadir pondered the question. "If you do immediately it will appear as if you are catapulting."

"Capitulating."

"Yes, merely to get close to her."

In an uncharacteristic movement, Erik shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "Well I would, wouldn't I?"

"Be that as it may, my friend, you must not be too quick."

"Like the answer to the question of her weight?"

"Very good, Erik. You are getting the hang of this quickly."

"So I bide my time and then apologize?"

"Well, if you think you can apologize. I mean there are times when a man must stand his ground. You just need to learn which battles you wish to win."

"I want to win all of them," Erik replied with a liberal amount of humor. "But I shall be munificent if it makes Mirielle happy."

They are started back on their journey down to the lake house when they heard a nervous plea.

"Gaspar? Is that you?"

Nadir looked at Erik who appeared the soul of innocence. Erik lifted his fingers and wiggled them. He still must think the men were headed for the lake and the Siren.

Nadir suppressed a shiver. The water down below was not so cold as to cause his fear. It was how still it could become, an almost anticipatory feeling rising from it. One moment there was the gentle current and then nothing but its black surface stretching out around the boat.

While he had no doubt the Siren was one of Erik's constructs, he had never actually heard the man deny that there was not something alive in the inky depths. Where there was water, there were fish and other creatures that moving within it. Living in Mazandarin he had seen the Sturgeon the Russians had brought in. They were covered in an armor and took several men to carry. He always remembered their disk-like eyes, looking strangely sad as they gasped in the alien air around them. The lack of their normal powerful movements through their environment must have astonished them.

Although Erik told him the spring below fed the Seine, it did not mean that something could have swum against the gentle current to find a safe place to dwell. Did fish require light to see?

"Gaspar?" The cry was a taking on a hysterical edge now. The poor fellow must have gotten separated.

Nadir straightened his jacket and stopped beside a brick. "Allow me." With fingertips made deft by repeated attempts he swung the brick out, opening a doorway into a parallel corridor.

"After you." Erik unfurled long digits in the light of their lamp.

"Thank you." Nadir stepped into the other corridor in time to see the glow of a lantern disappear around a corner.

"Oh, Erik. They are heading for the corridor of faces."

There was a hmphing sound behind him. Nadir glanced at his friend I surprise.

"I really didn't want to entertain guests, but we can't allow them to go there…."

"Do you want me to take care of it?"

"No. That's all right, old friend. Besides, if you with me they are less likely to startle and hurt themselves. Or shoot me."

Erik walked at a quick clip, his feet making sounds on the bricks and cement. "Look, chalk." He pointed low on the wall.

* * *

Percival hurried towards the end of the corridor, the fools had taken another wrong turn despite the markings. As he grew closer to the edge of the light that filled the hallway he held his breath. Stopping just at the end of the glow he raised hands and spoke softly.

"Come away from there."

One of the guards, a slight, older fellow stared at him for a moment before he began to blink. The other two were nowhere in sight.

"You're Provost, aren't you? You had better return this way with me."

Percival fought the urge to reach forward and capture the man. Like a sleepwalker, he might startle. It would not be the first time a man stuck in the hall of faces went wild and attacked a rescuer.

"Come on," Percival tried again. "I'll help you find the others. It won't take long. There are the chalk marks, you know--."

He could have kicked himself for mentioning the marks. Rather than reassuring the man, his gaze darted back to the surface of the bricks.

Percival had been in the hall enough to know that one did not raise the lantern. The light would through the carvings in stark planes and angles. If the air in the corridor shifted, the mouths of the faces would move. The eyes always appeared to follow the viewer. It was disturbing in a way that made no sense until one realized this what the view from Erik's cage must have been like. Dozens of faces. Large and small, repulsed, angry, screaming with curses or laughter, Percival didn't even want to think about them. Once he'd seen them they haunted his dreams.

He understood Erik far more after seeing the faces. Anyone would. The two walls were a slice of a nightmare that a child could not escape.

A voice whispered just behind his shoulder.

"Yes. Come with us."

The man's eyes focused on the speaker. Erik's voice had snared another would-be visitor.


	12. Chapter 12

**12.**

The guardsman stared into the deepening darkness beyond dit La Fougère's shoulder at two bright golden spots. They grew in size and a part of him realized whatever they belonged to was drawing nearer. Light began to reveal the edges of a shape, singular, moving in an almost ethereal way as if whatever it was, it floated.

dit La Fougère waited, but addressed the newest shade that hovered in the strange, still air. "Sorry about this. I didn't think you'd be coming back today."

"I know." A man's voice, laced with infinite patience. "I suppose that now is as good a time as any to get this over with."

The guardsman watched the faceless man approach. He had heard the description, but could not have believed a human being could be graced with those almost luminous eyes. Nor that voice. It alone explained how so many people might have seen the Ghost but could not recall anything about him. Feeling how slack his muscles felt and how light his head, he understood the unmistakable allure of the voice. It was the sort of legend, the sirens who called to men. What was this one saying?

dit La Fougère was not a slight man. This new arrival was tall. He offered a slight tilt of his head, an easy movement accentuated by the flash of his eyes that looked a tawny gold and then a bronze color. Feral eyes, no doubt, when a temper took him. He was serene now, a man comfortable within his home of stone and darkness. And water. There was a question of water.

Licking his lips, the guardsman asked, "Gaspar? I think he went on."

dit La Fougère's hat dipped as he nodded. "He is approaching the lake. We shall go there." He paused and glanced at the faceless man. "Together?"

"Certainly. We don't want any of the President's guards lost in all these dusty corridors, do we?"

The guardsman realized he was shivering as the tall man come closer. He observed the man's hand lifted, fingers moving elegantly within dark leather. Transfixed, he watched the palm sweep gracefully toward the end of the corridor.

He shot one last glance at the faces. They lined the surface of the corridor, some of them etched in bricks that receded and some that shot forward. All of them made him feel insignificant. Their expressions oozed derision, offered insults. He watched the tall man move gracefully past them as if they did not exist.

~*~

Mirielle came to the end of the row of knitting and turned the piece. Of a sudden, she looked it over and sighed. "I'm bored."

Anais swept into the room. "Madame?"

Mirielle let a grin escape. "After all those years of running a store and being a mother, you would think retirement would be blissful. It is, mind you. But it just is rather the same every day, isn't it?"

Anais look unconvinced. "Even with the Monsieur around? I'd think nothin' ever got boring with him around."

"That's true. Erik always finds something to talk about. Or he fidgets in that lair of his and sometimes brings me what he is working on."

"Lair?"

"The basement. Nadir calls it Erik's lair. I can't think of why."

Anais grinned slyly. "You have no idea what he does down there?"

"No. Erik likes to work on things. I've seen him fix watches and clocks, he made a ring once out of a coin, and I can't count the number of mechanical things he will pick up and walk around with in his hands. He touches them with his fingers as if he can read things about them from their surface. It's almost like magic some of the--," she paused before she said _traps_. "Some of the things he comes up with."

Anais stood waiting as her mistress heaved another sigh. Mirielle tugged at her skirt, looking ruefully at her ankle. "I don't think my injury is that bad. Maybe I should go out for some air?"

"It is a nice day, Madame. Would you like to look at the back garden?"

"Yes." Mirielle scooted to the edge of the settee as Anais reached out a hand. Steadying herself as she stood she told her maid, "Thank you."

"You know—I was coming to work a day or two ago and met the gardener that was working next door at the Aulin property."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've since seen him up and down the street doing different jobs. He introduced himself as Monsieur Rafinesque."

"A gardener? Do you think we need a gardener?"

Anais shrugged. "I think the property is beautiful. But you know the trail down to the river is getting a little overgrown."

"Yes, I remember," Mirielle mused. "And the last time Erik and I went that way there were some puddles." She lifted her skirt and took a few steps, favoring the ankle. "Let's take a look. Maybe I shall arrange a surprise for Erik."

As Anais followed her mistress she wondered exactly how anyone could surprise her employer. But then, his wife did seem to have a touch of magic herself. She probably needed it to keep up with the Baron.

~*~

Gaston Guillet stood with his lantern held high. The stairway seemed to climb to heaven in a jagged zigzag much like a bolt of lightning. It boggled the mind to think workmen scooped mortar on their trowels and placed each one of the bricks that erected the building over his head. He paused, wondering if miners felt like this. As if with each step, he was growing closer to something that lay sleeping in the deeper dark.

But he wasn't. He nearly cursed aloud. At the bottom of the stairs lay a corridor and low on the wall was a mark in pink chalk. He looked in disgust at what was left of the stub of chalk in his dusty hand. That dit La Fougère fellow must be sitting back in some office congratulating himself on letting them get hopelessly lost.

It was easy enough to do with lines of sandy brown brick encasing every surface around him. Other than the occasional break in the pattern, there seemed to be no end to the corridors. Why would someone build this place this way?

As he turned to go back up the stairs, he heard a sound so faint he stopped in his tracks to listen. Ears straining, he held his breath. The silence rang in his head. Before he decided it had been nothing, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stir. A wave of goosebumps ran down his arms as he froze. Someone else was in the corridor. Taking a breath he decided it would be best to turn slowly and peer over his shoulder.

He didn't get the chance.

A hand grasped his shoulder as a voice filed the corridor. "Gaston!"

"Mother of God!" He spun and looked at his senior, Lieutenant de Montmirail eyed him anxiously.

"We've been looking for you."

"I—we got separated. I turned the corner, right behind Sergeant Barsa."

"Where is Barsa?" The officer looked about anxiously.

"I don't know." Gaston shrugged helplessly and pointed to the wall. "There is pink there. I have yellow and you have blue, don't you?"

The officer lifted his piece of chalk. "If pink is down there, wouldn't that mean that Barsa is below us?"

Gaston rolled his eyes around the corridor. "I swear I've been here before. I could swear it! But there are no marks."

"No," the Lieutenant mused. "Unless someone has erased them."

"Erased?" Gaston glared at his senior. "Erased and replaced them with a color that one of us carries?"

de Montmirail's mouth pulled down in disgust. "You are right. I'm letting this place get to me. I've heard so many stories about the Ghost that I'm starting to believe them."

It was Gaston's turn to mirror his superior's frown. "I don't want to believe them."

de Montmirail stepped forward and looked up the stairwell. "Which way?"

Gaston pulled a coin from his pocket. He flipped it and caught it as it spun, descending to his awaiting palm. He slid a glance at the pink mark below him. "Down, sir."

"Down it is."

~*~

"They should arrive here soon. If not, I will go look for them." Erik's voice carried even though his words were hushed.

dit La Fougère watched the Persian amble along behind the Phantom as if he were strolling through a shop. Next to him, the guard walked along with a jerky step. _Yes. I've been there myself_, dit La Fougère mused. Accompanied by other men, it was still a leap of faith to follow Erik into the yawning dark at the end of each passage.

Erik turned casually and stepped through a wall.

dit La Fougère rested a hand on the guard's shoulder as the man halted in mid step. With a flourish, the Persian indicated the spot where Erik had disappeared. "False wall," he explained.

The guardsman peered at the bricks, reaching out a hand to keep himself from bumping into what he perceived was the surface. His hand drifted through the air as he stared at it in wonder.

dit La Fougère shook his head. He'd done that as well the first time he had found one of Erik's illusions.

"Do, uh, do you know where the other guards are?" The elder guard looked around himself as if he expected things to pop out of the walls.

"On their way down," Erik replied easily. "Or in circles. I don't doubt that they will keep pressing downwards."

"You live here?"

Erik hesitated only long enough to glance at his followers. "Lived. I own a house in Paris now. I couldn't ask my wife to stay down here."

"Your wife?"

"Were you here the night….."

The Persian slid a glance at dit La Fougère.

"I was recently married," Erik finally replied.

"Congratulations?"

Erik chuckled and turned a knowing grin upon the guard. "I take it you are married?"

"Yes."

Erik stopped and shook his head. "It is wonderful."

dit La Fougère tucked his chin upon his chest, feigning a glance at the floor. Hearing the wistful melody in Erik's voice was somehow very poignant in these empty halls.

Every man deserved to be so happy. The man who had carved all of those faces in the bricks deserved it more than most.


	13. Chapter 13

**13.**

Gaston Guillet walked behind his superior recounting how many of the stories he had heard from the crew upstairs about the Ghost. "You know, he doesn't really seem like such a bad fellow."

"Who?"

"The Phantom."

de Montmirail paused to shoot a baleful glare over his shoulder. "It is our duty to be sure of it. Captain Daubigeon wants him brought in for questioning."

Gaston scratched his head. "Seems if he really wants to meet up with the man, he should be the one traipsing around down here."

"We aren't traipsing," the Lieutenant snapped.

The hair on Guillet's arms rose as he heard another voice.

"_No. We can't be traipsing. That's just too casual."_

Another voice added, _"They might be cavorting."_

"_Where did you get that word?"_ Amusement laced the first voice.

"_Nymphs do it all the time on the stage, don't they?"_ The second voice held an exotic accent.

"_Yes. Well. That is a bit lively isn't it? It calls to mind a lot of leaping about."_ The voice was drawing closer.

After a pause Gaston heard Percival's voice. "Not much of that around here anymore. Too flaming dangerous if you ask me. You can bump your head on some of the lower lintels and really rattle your brains."

The first voice sounded so close to his ear, that Gaston froze, afraid to look to see who it was. He did hazard a glance at the Lieutenant who was peering into the dark around them. That fact alone was unsettling. How could any man walk these halls in the dark? Gaston swallowed and thought he could feel his Adam's apple bump from under his chin to rebound off of his collar bone.

"Precisely," the fist voice said sounding off to Gaston's right. "No gamboling either."

Gaston hadn't realized he was straining towards the darkness for a sign of movement. "I don't see any--."

"What are we betting on?" The exotic voice travelled like a hand over Gaston's shoulder.

There was a snort and a brief silence. "Gambol with an –ol, Nadir. Not gamble as in bet money."

"What is this other gambol?"

"It's a sort of prancing around."

Gaston nearly leaped out of his skin when he heard Felix Barsa's voice. "There you are!"

He whirled to look as the other guard and the party that stood at the opposite end of the corridor near where the Lieutenant stood, not daring to turn.

"How many?" the Lieutenant mouthed.

"Um. Four, I think."

A man in a bowler hat with dark eyes and the coloring of a foreigner stepped forward. "We were on our way downstairs and found your companion."

Percival taped the Lieutenant's shoulder. "Come on. You've wandered around long enough. He's letting you off easy."

The men straightened and turned fully to the other party. Standing to one side, a little beyond the others was a tall man in a dark suit. Something white covered his face from his hairline to his lips. Gaston Guillet hoped he was reading humor in the strange eyes that looked back at him. They had a luminous quality.

Percival made brief introductions. The Ghost nodded politely.

de Montmirail replied with a curt nod. "We have been detached--."

"Yes, yes. He knows that already," Percival snapped. "He isn't a lack wit."

The Ghost tsked. "No. I was mad once. It took time, but I am feeling much better. Come gentlemen. Now that you have made your way thus far, I should inform you of what pitfalls there still might be down here."

"Pits?"

"No. No pits anymore. Those were from the early days."

The man Percival introduced as the Persian grinned. "That's an old trick anyway. People expect that one."

"It still works on the unwary who are rushing somewhere," the Ghost replied.

Lieutenant de Montmirail still looked daggers at dit la Forge, but followed the Persian. Felix seemed no worse for his lonely wandering and the Ghost walked along pointing things out and telling about the history of the Opera. Gaston didn't know whether to feel relieved or not.

~*~

Mirielle tapped a toe against a tree root that had been uncovered by dripping rain from the canopy of branches above. "It could be dangerous. I might trip just walking along. Erik never would, but you know me." She looked down at her ankle with a rueful expression.

Anais mentioned the gardener again. "We could ask him what he thinks. Maybe he could level it out?"

"Yes. I'd like that. Do you think he is in the neighborhood today?"

The Creole woman's face lit with a grin. "I believe I heard his roar just over the fence. He's still trimming rose bushes, and they have wicked thorns."

Mirielle chuckled. "Well. Maybe we could lure him over with the promise of hot coffee?"

"I shall see what I can do, Madame."

~*~

Augustin Rafinesque pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his forehead. He noticed an angry red scratch crossing his wrist and running up his forearm. It matched the scratches on his knuckles, the cut on his elbow, and the rip in his shirtsleeve. He mopped once again at the beads of sweat and pocketed the handkerchief, noticing for the first time the vision of beauty that was approaching the fence. "Madame."

"Monsieur? I was accompanying my employer, Madame Vachon. She wishes to ask you about some work in her back garden."

"Certainly! I'd be happy to help." He rested against the handle of the shovel he held. "It will be a relief to get away from this briar patch."

Anais glanced over the fence at the roses. "It must be lovely here when they all bloom."

"Yes, but I never get to see it that way. I only come out and try to tame the suckers. I like to cut the plant back so that the new growth will have plenty of air and light," he explained, waving his hand over one of the rose bushes. "Right now they won't look like much."

"Well," she agreed. "My Mama took care of hers much the same."

"She grew roses?"

"Oh, no. She worked a plantation. Around the big house the master had a rose covered arbor. He liked it when Mama took care of it."

Augustin attempted to keep his voice level. "You were a slave?"

Anais shrugged, a gentle lift of what must be beautiful shoulders, he thought.

"I was freed when my late husband bought me." She glanced over at the house. "Shall I tell Madame a time that you may stop by?"

He consulted his watch. "About two o'clock?"

"That will be fine. Thank you."

"Thank you, Madame."

She turned away smiling. "Call me Anais."

Augustin thought his finger tips were tingling as he watched the sway of Anais' hips as she walked away. With a heavy sigh he turned back to his work.

~*~

The party stopped at the edge of the water, the newest visitors gaping at the dark surface as it slide silently passed. Felix Barsa stuck the toe of his boot closer to the edge. "Does that, um, the thing that is on the wall. Does it….?

The Ghost turned with a slight smile. He lifted a hand and a boat came towards them, gliding silently over the water.

"How did you do that?" Gaston asked.

The Ghost winked. "A magician does not reveal all of his secrets."

Percival looked thoughtfully at the house. "Erik? What are you going to do with it now that you live up there?" He pointed above them.

"I've been thinking about that," The Ghost watched the boat approaching. "Since the evening of the attempt upon the building, I think I would be remiss to not offer my home—former home—as a sort of meeting place." He turned to the Lieutenant. "I do know a fair amount about security. Monsieur Khan here was a police chief in Persia. He might be of some service to you as well."

The Persian nodded with a faint smile.

"And Percival, here," the Ghost continued, "has firsthand knowledge of some of my traps."

dit LaFougère rolled his eyes. "More than I care to mention," he muttered. With a benign smile he looked at the Ghost. "I'd be happy to keep an eye on the house for you." He held up a finger, "But I don't dust."

"Thank you, Percival. I'd appreciate it if someone took care of it."

Percival noted a wistful tone of Erik's voice. He wasn't sure he knew how many years the man had lived in the house. It must be quite startling to have his world changed so completely in only a few months.

Mirielle had done wonders. Where Erik's every word was suspect and his moods were to be dreaded, there was now an almost mundane quality to the man. As the boat bumped the edge of the quay, Percival looked down into the dark water and swore he saw a shadow slide along under the boat. While the master had a new kingdom, perhaps his fellow occupants were still here. The thought left him with a whisper of ghostly fingers trailing over his neck.

What lived in the lake should be left alone.

The guards were respectfully silent as they toured the house. Erik's voice held a note of pride as he described the marble fireplace. It didn't take a fool to understand the man was a craftsman. There was one room, however, that he hesitated before. His eyes were still a hint of gold in the dim hallway as he glanced briefly at the Persian. The exotic man appeared to set his shoulders and give a small nod. Erik pushed open the door.

Inside was something that Percival himself had a hard time imaging. Like some bizarre folly constructed in a palace, the room was sided by tall mirrors. In one corner looked to be a tree, twisted branches reaching out from the glass-like gnarled arms. As he moved into the center of the chamber he began to lose focus, gaining the feeling that something sat just at the periphery of his vision. Turning his head only resulted in the object still at the fringe. It was maddening.

"Close your eyes for a moment," Erik said.

Percival did. A hand brushed his shoulder. Erik stood near him pointing to a place that receded from his vision as he attempted to focus upon it. It made Percival want to shake his head to clear it.

"Can you see the seam between the glass?" Erik asked.

"Not very well."

"Approach it. When you can pick it out with your vision, just focus on it for a moment. It will clear that befuddled feeling you are experiencing."

"How does this work?"

Erik stepped past him, casting a reflection that repeated in the mirror. "I based the chamber on an old roman device, a catroptic cistula. It is a toy of sorts that plays with the eye."

"What is it supposed to do?" Percival noted the reflection of the guards who listened avidly.

Erik's gaze touched the Persian's. "I was employed as a torturer. The device was to drive men to the point of desperation that they took their own lives." One long-fingered hand gestured towards the tree that seemed to now take up the center of the room.

Percival stared at it, thinking it looked innocuous until he noticed something appear in the mirror. Like a phantom, the shape of a man turned slowly from a rope.

Years of watching Erik's tricks and traps had not prepared him for this. He kept his arms at his sides, although he fervently wished to make the sign of the cross. The entire chamber gave the illusion of an endless place, caught between the real world and a nightmare. Its emptiness drained him of fortitude. The idea of men left in this device made him turn away. "I've seen enough."

He saw the Persian had his eyes fixed upon the floor and knew that the chamber had at least one occupant once upon a time.


	14. Chapter 14

**14.**

"Do you think she's some sort of heathen?"

Christine gaped at her husband, turning so quickly from sliding in her hat pin, she might have skewered herself. "What?"

"Mirielle," he said in a matter of fact voice. "Those lines on her hands." He drew one hand over the other and examined the backs.

Christine turned back to the mirror. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"She has these reddish lines on the backs of her hands."

"I've only seen her wearing gloves." She paused to watch her husband's reflection. "When have you seen her…." She stopped abruptly at the idea of her husband and Erik's wife. "When did she ..expose…them to you?"

Raoul's golden brows drew down. "She had her gloves off at the opera that day you were up on the stage." He closed his watch and tucked it inside his favorite sapphire colored vest. It highlighted his eyes, making them seem to glow.

"I see." She ran a finger along the ribbon that surrounded the brim of her hat. Like most of her clothing it had required some repair after their endless days travelling on the trains. She cast one last glance at the mirror wondering if the rouge on her cheeks blended well enough. Despite sleeping better than she had in months, there were dark smudges under her eyes that refused to leave.

Christine thought she looked old.

Raoul stepped behind her. "Ready?"

His eyes glinted in the light from the mirror. _So alive_, she thought. _Why is he alive while I am slowly dying? _His strong fingers took hold of hers gently, so gently.

He grimaced at his reflection. "You know this all still bothers me. You and him having lessons." He cast a rueful gaze at her. "But I love you, Chris. I want to see you happy before I go."

_Before you die_, she wailed silently in despair.

His fingers appear on her shoulders. "Christine." He massaged her, pulling her back against him. "You'll be fine. You haven't lost your voice."

She smiled, for she knew he needed it. While it lifted the corner of her lips and displayed small white teeth, it hid the silent tears she wept. She was an accomplished actress, Gustave Daae's daughter. She'd performed for her father as he coughed and gasped his last. She's stood in the house with Erik, weeping silently while she shivered in fear. Now she turned to take her husband's arm before fate swept time ruthlessly aside. In a month Raoul was to leave for the North Pole. She would become one of the women who waited. Each day would dawn with dread of a letter, a telegram, a Naval officer bearing the awful news.

They had ridden trains, dined in small cafes, visited grand estates, and always walked one step ahead of the grim truth that hovered at the fringe of their days. An unwelcomed guest, it refused to leave her alone and let her enjoy her time with Raoul to the fullest. Rather than gathering each precious moment to hold, she'd let them run through her fingers, leaving her hands empty, her heart lamenting.

She felt his insistent tug and glanced up at him.

"Chris, are you frightened?"

"No," she lied bravely. Diva, actress, dancer, Gustave's only child felt the frozen caress of the North winds chilling her heart.

Raoul searched her face. He would not understand her fear and she would not taint their last days together. She shook her head. "No. My ribbon is trying to come loose again."

"Your hat?" His incredulity filled his voice. "We can shop this afternoon after your lesson. Would you like that? A walk along the river in the sunshine?"

"Yes," she replied happily. "The sunshine." It was the only thing that melted her weary heart.

~*~

Mirielle watched as the gardener, a man Anais introduced as Monsieur Rafinesque, doffed his hat and gave her a pained look.

"Please, Madame Vachon, call me Augustin."

Mirielle noted the faint smile that lifted the corner's of her maid's lips. A sparkle glinted in Anais' eyes as she gazed at the gardener from under her long lashes. Knowing what she did of her maid, Mirielle decided that Augustin Rafinesque would be doing some chores around the house.

She pointed to the space between the trees. "I thought this was such a lovely little spot, that it would be nice to have a bench here. What do you think?"

Augustin walked, noting the tree roots that crisscrossed the path, and the puddles created between them where the rain had dripped from the branches above. He paused and looked at the river and then back towards the house. "May I suggest something?"

Mirielle swept a hand to indicate the little clearing. "Please do."

"I know of sight that is clearing away some river rock. They are slabs with nicely smoothed surfaces." He retreated to a corner and indicated a path. "I could build a walkway that winds between the trees. I might be able to get enough to arrange a small sitting area here. Does Madame prefer a bench, or a number of chairs and a table?"

Mirielle thought of Erik. "A bench, I believe. But a small table would be nice." For the wine and the glasses, or possibly the decanter of cognac her husband preferred.

"Any particular style? Second Empire? Romanticist? Classical?"

She sat a finger to her chin. "We were married at La Madeleine. I believe my husband prefers the classical sort of thing." She added with a sly look towards Anais. "I know he does prefer cozy."

She nearly giggled aloud as Anais' cheeks took on a decidedly pink cast. The gardener must have noticed it as well. He cleared his throat and slapped his hat against his thigh while Anais glanced away.

Augustin pointed towards the bordering property. "I will be finished with that row of roses next door by Thursday. Is there a particular time you would like me to arrive?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," Mirielle replied easily. "I'm sort of stuck here since I turned my ankle."

"Then I shall get hold of those stones and start looking for a bench. Is there someplace you wish me to store them—out of the way?"

Mirielle paused. She hadn't considered the sort of upheaval it might cause. "Goodness. I sort of hoped to keep it from my husband. A surprise, you understand."

"Well, I wouldn't tell just anyone, but I think I can manage to store the bench next door until we are ready to set it in place. I'm not sure I can cover the hauling of gravel and the rocks." He gazed questioningly at Anais.

The maid, in turn, looked to Mirielle. "Well," she murmured. "Do you think his student will keep him busy?"

Mirielle pondered the prolonged proximity of an old flame. At least Christine's husband would be in attendance to assure that nothing which once might have flared to life had the chance to catch hold again.

"I don't think I can keep anything from monsieur Vachon. What if we only tell him about the walk and keep him out of the back garden until we can get the bench in?"

Anais' nodded solemnly. "The less we speak about it…."

Mirielle twisted fingers behind her skirt. "The less he will think it's important…" She slid an apologetic glance at Augustin. "It isn't as if you would be in any trouble or anything. Or would I. I just know my Erik."

The man nodded his understanding. "I think I can sew my lips shut if he asks any pointed questions."

Anais gaped in horror at the man, hand to her bosom. "Augustin!"

The gardener blinked and stared back at the maid. "An--Mademoiselle?"

Through the murk of confusion, a wan light appeared to Mirielle. "It's just a turn of phrase, Anais."

The maid wilted with relief, then straightened, looking unconcerned. "Sorry. I was confused."

Mirielle looked back at the trees. "Why don't you make a pot of tea? Augustin and I can take a look at the shed." She turned a fixed smile to the man. "Just to be sure we could fit a bench in it."

He nodded and offered an arm. "Let me help you across the ground, Madame. I wouldn't want you to damage your ankle once again. We want you to enjoy that bench of yours."

After they stepped away from the trees and Anais' retreating form, Mirielle stopped the gardener. "She's from the Caribbean."

"Yes?"

"Well. You know they have different customs."

"They do? I thought the island was settled by the French and the Dutch."

"It is?"

"It is," he informed her.

Mirielle made note that the gardener seemed well informed for a man who battled errant bushes. Perhaps there was something between Anais and the man already? She stopped at the corner of the shed and looked back towards the house. "Listen. If you are investigating her home, you must know that Anais—she's a lovely maid, by the way, and a pleasant woman—how shall I put this delicately? She is a believer in Voodoo. That is why she nearly swooned when you said you would sew your lips shut."

The man stared at Mirielle with much the same sort of expression her husband wore when he listened to her.

"Do you see?" she asked.

"No." He lifted his hat and looked at it a moment. "It doesn't matter to me. Not that part anyway."

"Which part? I said many things."

"You think the Voodoo part will scare me off." He eyed her with a grin. "I would never judge her."

"I'm delighted to hear that, Augustin. I can tell you people are exceedingly rude when they judge others."

"I suppose I shouldn't say things like that around her anymore. She was quite upset, yes?"

"Yes, I think she was. But then, she's working for the Lord of the Dead."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, dear," Mirielle sighed happily. "Let's view the interior of the shed and I'll tell you a story, Gus. May I call you Gus?" She took his offered arm. "It all started with a man in a mask and a lonely widow going to a matchmaker." She paused to consider his concerned features. "Do you have time for a long story?"

He sat his hat on his head. "I don't think I miss this one for the world."

"Good. We can discuss the end of it over tea at the house."


	15. Chapter 15

**15.**

Nadir watched from behind Erik's shoulder as he quickly pointed out the wiring that ran to the house from the alarm bells. Percival was quick to follow Erik's directions, while the other men gazed off across the water as if a bright light might illuminate at the far end revealing where the trip wires were.

Having spent years in Erik's company, Nadir learned to notice small imperfections in walls, ceilings and door frames, along with uneven spots under carpets. He still was getting used to touring under the opera amidst the soaring stairs and the brickwork vaults. He'd learned to recognize the English and the Flemish bond of brick placement. If he studied an area long enough he could pick out what patches had been recently replaced.

The Opera possessed an ever-shifting mass of storage rooms. When props over-ran one cellar, another room might be commandeered to take in the overflow of furnishings and curtains. Only rooms such as the battery room, the gas mains, and the water valves were left alone. Maintenance and cleaning areas sprang up when the need arose to be moved along to another area later.

Erik had explained headers and stretchers, soldiers and sailors, glazing and mortar. The man could walk along any street in the world and explain which wall was weight bearing, which was designed with a cavity to insulate, and which were superior compared to the ones that had been constructed with an economy of bricks. While it made Nadir's head spin to follow Erik's details, it did serve to sharpen his observance skills.

Percival must have been party to similar expeditions. He spent so many years below with Erik it would have been inconceivable that the man knew nothing. Erik had taken a shine to the other fellow, recommending Erik's assessment of how competent dit LaFougère must have been to impress him.

The guards and their officer took everything in. At times they resembled awestruck children before a store window. They were, however, careful to keep within a close distance to one another. One expedition through the lower halls was enough it seemed. No one could walk the corridor of faces and not forever carry the feeling of eyes upon them as they walked.

As they began the journey back up to the cellars above, Percival directed the Lieutenant and his men down one corridor. While they carried on with their inspection, Erik took Nadir's elbow and guided him in the opposite direction.

"We must proceed upstairs or I shall be late for lessons," he confided.

Above, the Opera was humming with conversations. Actually, by the tone of the words, it sounded more like a chorus of arguments to Nadir. People caught sight of Erik and moved aside, still gazing in a sort of curious wonder at his tall, elegant form. He nodded greetings to the people who spoke to him. Many actually smiled at him.

All of them waited until he passed and began scurrying towards the auditorium seats. Evidently, word of Christine's lessons drew crowds.

Nadir found a seat at the end of an aisle and sat watching the gathered singers more than the stage. They clung to every word with rapt attention.

There was a hush as the slim but striking figure of Christine Daae entered the stage. Other than her rather bland walking dress, she appeared almost unchanged to Nadir. She smiled as she joined Erik beside an upright piano. She glanced once over the sea of curious faces until she found the Vicomte. A nod passed between them.

The lesson under way, Nadir was pleased to see that pupil and teacher both were quick to fall into syncopation. After a warm up, Erik asked the watching singers if any of them would like to act as a chorus to the scene Christine was taking up. Eager hands shot skyward. Erik selected a few and promised the others that they would have a chance during the next lesson.

They ended with Christine singing Pamina's Lament from _The Magic Flute_. It was one of Nadir's favorite operas. Christine's performance sounded to his untutored ears just as strong as when she had performed her last. It was the look on her face that made him hold his breath.

Something was wrong with the girl.

As the session broke up, the stage was crowded by the singers, reminding him of a peep of chickens, their necks craning to hear the date of the next lesson. The Vicomte was quick to access the stage and go to his wife's side. She, however, was nodding solemnly at something Erik was saying, her pale blue eyes fixed on him.

Nadir excused himself as he passed the edge of the singers and gained access the stairs to the stage. Erik did not glance away from Christine. It gave Nadir a moment to look over his friend's posture. While Erik's hands were clasped behind his back and he appeared relaxed, his head dipped towards Christine. Nadir could see a flash of concern, almost a wince to Erik's countenance as the Vicomte gained his wife's attention and she turned away.

The couple milled a few feet from Erik as he turned to address the auditorium of clamoring would-be students. Nadir took the opportunity to shake hands with Raoul de Chagny. To his credit, the younger man grasped his hand and gazed at him directly. It had not been so long ago that Nadir watched the boy lift a pistol to his own head inside the mirrored hell Erik had created.

He was very happy the young man had not lost his senses. His love for Christine had kept them both safe in the end and set off a chain of events that had set Erik free to find a love of his own. A true love. Nadir experienced a wistful thought of the feelings that love engendered. The sort of rush of excitement he felt when he'd met Catherine Jardaux.

Erik stepped forward, standing tall and somber as he gazed fleetingly at the Vicomte. Ah well, Nadir thought, no love lost there. The depths of Erik's feelings for Christine were buried farther than his outward appearance would allow a glimpse.

Chastising himself for being a nosy and interfering ex-policeman, Nadir spoke up. "Why don't we all have dinner together?"

Three faces regarded him as if he were mad, and probably for a similar variety of reasons.

"I'm not—sure…." Christine began.

Raoul stepped closer to his wife. "We have plans."

"We do?" she blurted. The couple stared at one another.

Erik, whose eyes adopted a fierce glow, bored a hole through Nadir's head.

To quell the small argument that past between the couple, Nadir added, "Madame Vachon is house bound with her recent injury. I'm sure she would _love_ to have visitors. Tomorrow, perhaps? I'll see if mademoiselle Jardaux is available. We can make it a three-some."

Raoul de Chagny blushed deeply, red to the tips of his ears. Christine's cheeks colored a glowing rose.

Erik recovered quickly. "Certainly. My wife is an excellent hostess. We have a maid from the Caribbean. Do you enjoy spicy foods?"

Christine's face took on more animation than Nadir had previously witnessed. "Oh, I'd love to try Creole food."

Raoul might have been backed into a corner by his wife's enthusiasm. Instead he seemed intent on watching his wife's animated face. A glance passed between him and Erik. "We would be delighted, monsieur."

~*~

Christine walked along the shops, her hand resting on Raoul's arm. She was happy. He could detect it in her interest in shop windows and the light tone of her voice. While it heartened him, it also left a bitter taste in his mouth. Why couldn't he do this for her?

Every day she read the papers, still in the habit of awaiting her duty to Erik. But it was her lingering stare at the date that spoke the words she would not. He would be leaving for the expedition.

It frightened her. He didn't need a fortune teller or any of Erik's amazing abilities to see it. Christine had lost everyone dear to her one by one during her short life. First her mother in Sweden, then her father after coming to France. Madame Valerius' health was steady, but left her confined to her home. And there was Erik. Erik she professed to love in some strange way that even she could not explain.

Raoul had believed it was gratitude until the night in the house when Erik had let them go. Christine clung to him as they left in the boat, but her eyes held a sad emptiness. Raoul exercised patience and care with her. She had lost something that night. A part of her would forever be Erik's. The Vicomte had learned to acceptance once the fear of reprisal from Erik was removed and he and Christine were able to put the distance between them and Paris that only time could grant.

He stopped his wife before a millenary shop. "What about your hat, Chris?"

"Oh, this one will do. I'll just tuck the ribbon in again."

"No, dear. I want you to buy a hat."

She stopped before the window, peering through the glass. "I don't know. I don't feel like trying any on."

"For me?" He adopted a teasing smile.

"All right," she allowed. "But if you look bored, I shall kick you."

"Christine! I'm never bored when I watch you. I am the soul of patience."

She laughed; her eyes alit with her happiness. "I'll remind you of that."

He took up a chair inside the shop and watched happily as his wife made faces in the mirror at him when the shop attendant wasn't looking. This playful Christine was worth a dozen hats, a thousand.

~*~

Erik splayed hands across the top of the piano. "Dinner?" He snatched up his hat and left Nadir to scramble after him. "A three-some?" He muttered something as he turned away.

Nadir smirked. "Come on, Erik. Mirielle has to be curious how the lessons are going."

Erik's long legs covered the distance between the auditorium and the front of the opera swiftly. "I describe them in minute detail."

"Do you describe how wounded Christine looks?"

Erik stood silent a moment. "Wounded? Is that what it is? I thought she seemed lost."

"She is hurting inside, Erik." Nadir lifted a hand for a cab. "Mirielle will be able to get the truth from her."

"You think so?"

Nadir stood watching the traffic while Erik ruminated on his own question. "Women have an affinity for searching out emotional problems. They also talk about their husbands."

Erik climbed into the cab after Nadir and sat forward, a finger on his chin. "They do?"

"Yes."

"Do they compare them? What?" Erik was still mapping out the territory of marriage. "They don't discuss—discuss _that_ do they?"

Deciding if it might curtail his years above ground, Nadir opted to not to tease Erik about _that_ as he referred to it. "Conjugal rights?"

Erik almost squirmed. He nodded.

"My dear fellow, what they discuss can have a profound effect on your marriage."

"It can? I'm not sure I like the sound of that, Nadir."

"Rest assured Mirielle will have a lot to teach Christine. The Vicomte should be most happy."

"But what about me?" Erik reared back, indignant.

"What about you. You don't seem to be suffering."

By the set of his shoulders, Erik looked deflated. "You said this might affect me."

"Let me put your worries to bed--."

"To rest," Erik provided.

"To rest, then. Having a nice dinner, a pleasant chat, and Christine's dilemma solved will make your wife happy. Make Mirielle happy and you will be happy, too."

"I will?"

"Erik! Don't be obscure."

"_Obtuse_."

"What ever."

Erik considered something outside the cab window. "Make my wife happy."

"You know," Nadir added. "If she's happy, she will not be asking you if she looks fat."

"Point taken."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Happy New Year and on with the future mayhem!**

**16.**

Erik opened the front door of his home and held it for Nadir. Sweeping into the parlor, expecting Mirielle, they found an empty settee and the hum of conversation from the kitchen. Erik would have left Nadir in the parlor, but the Persian trailed along, looking happy as a puppy, but lacking the floppy ears and oversized paws.

Swinging open the kitchen door with care, a surprising scene unfolded. Anais sat with her sleeves rolled back, peeling potatoes while Mirielle sat with a cup of tea perched in her fingers. At the end of the table sat a man, who glanced up, his face betraying no surprise as he took in the new arrivals.

Nadir shot past Erik. "Mirielle, my dear, you look splendid. I believe this incarceration agrees with you."

"No it does not," she pouted. "I've been outside with the help of Anais and Gus."

Erik readily identified the person who must be Gus. The man got to his feet and offered a hand, which Nadir intercepted with a hardy handshake. "How do you do, Gus? I'm Nadir, a friend of the family."

Erik stepped forward, offering a hand. Gus's hands had calluses, his knuckles criss-crossed by angry looking scratches. Perhaps Mirielle had needed a handyman. "How do you do."

"Augustin Rafinesque, monsieur."

"I've hired Gus to fix the path to the river," Mirielle explained.

First a maid and now a handyman. At least people around the property would assure Mirielle had someone to talk to as well as insure she wouldn't turn her ankle again. Erik stood next to his wife, taking her hand. "A splendid idea."

"You think so?" she asked. "You don't mind?"

"Why would I mind? I don't want you harming that ankle again."

Mirielle smiled. "I'll be careful. I don't enjoy being left behind while you conduct your lessons."

Erik detected a slight lilt in his wife's voice. Her head inclined, the unspoken question perched on her soft lips.

"It went all right. Not as well as I had hoped."

Mirielle's gaze slid to a spot somewhere passed his shoulder. She was looking for confirmation from Nadir, who never shirked a chance to tell a tale.

"I was surprised at Madame de Chagy," Nadir began. "She sounded a number of times as if she had caught a cold." He lifted hands to his throat. "Like she was choking."

Mirielle's smile didn't falter, but the warmth turned to a wistful sadness.

~*~

Augustin Rafinesque stood at the beginning of the wide patch under the trees where Madame Vachon had explained her plans. He husband took a step into the spot, glancing slowly from side to side. Looking at the back of the man's head, he saw the ties that held the mask over his features.

One thing life had taught him was that appearances were deceiving. While he did not doubt that M. Vachon had a reason to wear the mask, he sported a stylish suit and made easy conversation as they scanned the back garden.

"Money is not a problem," he said. "My wife is so frugal she will make a Lucky Angel squawk."

"I shall make no purchases unless I consult Madame first," he assured Vachon. "She mentioned that you were an architect. That you knew stone."

"I suppose I do. It is one of the least changeable elements on the planet." He walked towards a tree and reached out and fingered the striations in the bark as if he were reading something, a pattern, that only he could see. He cocked his head, like a bird listening for an insect below the bark. "I own a tree."

"Your pardon?"

The mask swung towards him, flashing a golden light from the deep recessed eyes. "I used to have a tree of iron. Now I own a live tree." Enthusiasm changed the man's voice.

"Congratulations, Monsieur. The house has waited for someone to make it a home."

"Mirielle will. She's had me buy up half of Paris." A smile flashed at the edge of the mask. "Feathering her nest, I presume. I must admit I know more of stone work than woman's work."

Augustin nodded, listening to the stirring of the leaves over their heads. "I could bring you some samples of the stones we were thinking of using."

"No need." Monsieur Vachon seemed to immerse himself in the environment around him. He turned, a flash of light travelling over the surface of the mask. "You have but to tell me the variety and I will know."

"Monsieur?"

"I can tell you how it feels with the warm sun upon it and the summer day making it smell of dust. Or when it is wet, like the rain on the cobblestones. All stone tells a story." He gripped his hands behind his back as he turned towards the house. "I'm sure we shall be quite satisfied with your choices."

Augustin sat his hat on his head and watched the man walk back to the house, his dark suit a startling contrast to the pleasant greenery around him. Like a figure in a painting, he appeared to be out of step with his surroundings, but strangely fitting, like a shadowy spot under the trees.

Augustin looked forward to his employment with the Vachons and their beautiful Creole maid.

~*~

Mirielle asked Nadir stay for dinner, but the Persian declined, claiming a previous engagement. Erik sat at the kitchen table with a cup of cool tea and listened to Mirielle question the Persian, Nadir told a whopping tale of the journey below the Opera. Mirielle more than once rolled her eyes at the prospect of the guards trying to find the lake. "At least Percival was there to keep an eye upon them." She paused and took a sip of her tea.

Anais had stoked the stove, it threw off heat that turned the air warmer. "Shall we retire to the parlor?" Erik asked. Assisting his wife, they left their cups behind and settled on the settee. Nadir did the honors of seeing to the fireplace. The quiet of the room was broken by the occasional tap of a tree limb along the house's roof.

"Darling," Mirielle began. "What are you going to do about security for the building?"

"I was thinking of calling a meeting between myself, Percival and the guards. Perhaps we should set up some sort of task force."

"Do you believe anyone will target the Opera once more?" Nadir looked concerned.

"I hope not. But from what I read in the papers, this Socialism and these radicals in the Balkans, I fear the safety of the public will now be questioned."

Mirielle appeared surprised. "You don't mean another revolution, do you?"

"Not in our country," Erik answered. "But I believe we will see many changes sweeping Europe. We have already seen William I proclaimed as the German Emperor right here in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles."

"I see your direction," Nadir added. "The German state and the Iron Chancellor."

"Yes. I'm afraid I don't agree with von Bismark. First he tried to remove the Catholics, the Poles, and now the Socialists He's bent on Germanizing everyone as the papers report. While I admire many of what they term German virtues, I don't see the need in forcing them down everyone else's throats."

"We have seen enough of that," Nadir agreed. "But Europe is more progressive. That Victoria woman is quite forceful in her views."

Erik laughed. "She's gotten most of her children married off to the monarchies of the continent. She will ensure her views are impressed upon the world."

"I don't think so," Mirielle said. "I've read that her grandson William is very conservative even though his mother is British."

"Part and parcel for being in thick with von Bismark." Erik took hold of his wife's hand. "We shall come up with something for the Opera, Nadir and I."

"We will?" Nadir appeared surprised.

"Certainly. You have a large amount of experience with the police." Erik paused. "Oh, I believe we are having guests for dinner tomorrow."

"We are?" Mirielle asked brightly.

"Yes. Nadir asked the Vicomte de Chagny and his wife to dine with us." He glanced at Nadir. "And you are coming as well?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Nadir scoffed. "I need to be going. I was going to approach Catherine about accompanying me."

"How nice. I'd love to see Catherine again," Mirielle replied.

"So it is all right then? That we asked the de Chagny's?"

Erik glared at Nadir. "You asked. I didn't. But I suppose it will be all right." He turned to Mirielle. "How much trouble could be stir up in one short dinner?"

Nadir watched a small smile cross Mirielle's lips. The question of trouble, the de Chagny's and the ex-Phantom was sure to result in a lively evening. Sore ankle or not, Mirielle might have her hands full. "So this meets with your approval?"

"Of course. I'd love company."

"Very well. I'll be back tomorrow night."

Mirielle exchanged pleasantries and a light peck on the cheek from Nadir. Erik walked him out into the hall and fetched his hat from the hall tree.

"Do you think I should have volunteered to bring something?" Nadir asked.

"No, not all all," Erik groused. "Just don't leave me here alone with de Chagny. I have this resounding fear we will be sitting staring at one another."

"Mirielle will keep them talking." He popped his bowler on his head. "She's managed to get you to say something pleasant."

Erik snorted. "That's different. She cares about what I have to say."

"She ran a store. I'm sure that she is the soul of conversation as it needs be."

Erik nodded. "Agreed. I'm sure she's heard every complaint from her patrons."

"Just don't you grouse at her," Nadir warned. "She's your wife and she she'll love being your hostess."

"Yes. She will."

Nadir pulled open the door. "I'll see you around seven o'clock then."

"Don't be late."

"Why?"

"I might have to resort to idle chatter with Raoul."

"Allah forbid." Nadir grinned. "Erik being pleasant. Doesn't that happen only once a year?"

"Shut up," Erik snapped and pushed the door closed.

**Lucky Angels were 20 Franc gold coins**


	17. Chapter 17

**17.**

Mirielle insisted on hobbling into the kitchen and discussing the dinner with Anais. Erik left them to their plans and took a moment to walk around his workshop under the house. On his work table he'd left a feather he had retrieved from the garden while talking to Gus. Running it carefully over his fingertip, he marveled at the precise ridge of the quill and the feathers as they marched along its length. How God could create something with such infinite detail had always made him jealous that he had been cheated of something as simple as a nose. Perhaps his visage would have been bearable if there wasn't that hideous gap in his face.

On the table lay an assortment of objects. He'd been picking them up here and there from Anais' description of objects used in Voudon ceremony. He still had to talk with her about the particulars of such a ceremony. Tomorrow he might find a moment where he could without Mirielle knowing. Unless he decided to confide in his wife. She might take exception to some of this going on in her garden.

He climbed the stairs and found Mirielle sitting with her elbows propped on the kitchen table. "Done with your plans already?" He asked.

"Yes. I think I'd like a turn through the garden before dinner. Do you think my doctor would agree?"

"Absolutely." He offered her a hand up from the chair and then his arm. "You seem happy today."

"Oh, I am. I got to be outside. The sun makes me long for spring."

"It will come soon enough. The leaves will be popping out on the branches soon."

"Do you think I could have Gus bring in some rose bushes?"

"Mirielle, the garden is yours to do with as you wish." Erik guided her towards the river. Now seemed as good a time as any to breach the subject of Christine's ritual. "I do have one favor to ask."

"What?"

He paused, looking around the path. There didn't seem to be anything that she could sit upon, so he resumed the walk to the river. "I was asking Anais some questions about her religion. You do know she practices the Voodoo as we refer to it?"

"Yes, dear."

"Well, I got to thinking about Christine's problem. The girl always put tremendous stock in her belief in supernatural agents."

"Uh oh."

"What?" His head snapped to see Mirielle's bemused look. "We haven't planned anything grand. Just a little ritual that will help Christine along with her singing."

"A ritual."

"Yes."

"Does her husband agree with this?" she asked archly.

Erik thought blustering his way through her question might earn him a night with a water bottle. She'd thrown her shoes at him once, so he fell back upon the truth. "I haven't brought it up."

"Does she know about it?"

"No."

His wife gazed up at him. "Do you think this will do any good?"

"I don't know." He exhaled and closed his eyes. "She needs something and I don't know what else to do."

"Not to worry, dear man. We shall have their permission tomorrow."

"We shall?"

"Of course, Erik. I'd do that for you."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how, but he thought better than to question her at this moment. As Nadir had pointed out, she'd done wonders with his own demeanor, and it certainly might be more appealing an idea coming from her rather than him. "If we can interest Christine, then Raoul will surely not take exception to it."

Mirielle smirked. "Who said anything about Raoul? Just leave Christine and I alone for a little while tomorrow. Some things are just better handled by the women."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

He didn't like the sound of that, not one tiny iota. But Nadir had peeked his interest with the idea that women discussed things. While it all seemed in good order, he loathed the idea of handing over Christine's guidance to anyone else, even Mirielle.

They paused by the river, watching to setting sun paint the surface in silver and gold whorls as the water leaped away from the edges of boats. The apartment buildings on the other side cast purple shadows over the people who approached their doors. Everyone was coming home for the evening, and here he stood in the daylight, next to the river, holding his wife's arm.

He glanced at her face. Not so many months ago he had hazarded a look at her profile after their first dinner. She stood with the same sort of happy expression. It must mean that he was still doing the proper things that husbands were expected to do.

"I own trees now." He indicated the branches that bowed over them. "I only just realized it as I was walking the path with the handyman."

"Gus? Anais had been introduced as she walked by the house next door." She paused, "I forget the old woman's name over there."

"Aulin," he supplied easily.

"Have you met her?"

He cocked his head and fixed his wife with a mischievous look.

Mirielle pursed her lips, but let a sly grin escape. "I should have known old habits die hard."

"I just like to keep informed."

"How?"

"I can't let you know all of my secrets, Mirielle," he complained in a mocking voice.

She reached up to his lapel and gave it a tug. "I'll tell that woman to wheedle it out of you."

"Oh," he exhaled. "That sounds promising. When does she arrive?"

"I think she's planning something after dinner," she responded with what Erik thought looked like a leer.

Erik could hardly wait.

~*~

Raoul paid for he and Christine's dinner. One of the waiters helped his wife with her chair as Raoul went to retrieve her coat. His heart skipped a beat as he thought she looked more enchanting by the day. This trip back to Paris had done something for her. Something he cursed himself for not being able to give her.

"I'd like to walk back to the hotel," she said softly.

"Of course." After they moved away from the restaurant he asked, "How does your throat feel?"

"Fine. It isn't like it hurts to sing. I'm being careful."

"Good for you, Chris. Are you, ah, getting along with him all right?"

"You mean Erik?" She gave his fingers a squeeze. "Can you believe it? He is up on the stage in front of all of those people. And he is such a good teacher! You can see it in their faces how amazed they are."

"Yes I noticed."

"You don't sound pleased, dear."

"I'm relieved, I think. First we find he's still alive, and married. Married for God's sake! If some woman has seen something to love, then he must no longer be dangerous."

Christine stopped at the end of the bridge. Raoul was already fishing a few coins out of his pocket. He dropped them onto her upturned palm.

Christine stepped away, leaning as far as she could over the rail and tossed the coins down into the river. Raoul watched the play of the breeze as it snatched at her hat ribbon. His wife's cheeks were turning pink from the cool air. With a smile he stepped behind her and looked over the rail, an arm about her waist.

"Feeding the trolls again, Chris?"

She turned pale and sparkling eyes to meet his. "I used to do it in Sweden. Papa would give me a coin or I would save the crust of my sweets to give the trolls. They like treasures."

"I'm not sure a city as large as Paris would be a good place for a troll to live. There are lots of bridges, but too much traffic on the water. It would be noisy for their ears."

"You think so?" Christine looked startled. "Oh, you are teasing me, Raoul!" She made a face at him. "With all the treasure they have, they must include some candle wax. They would just pop it into their ears so the boats don't bother them."

"Would they?"

"Trolls are very wily creatures," she informed him.

"In that case," he replied taking out another coin, "we should be sure they never run out of wax." He flipped the coin in the air and watched it turn end over end as it descended to the water.

"Yes. We have to keep the trolls happy."

Raoul noticed how fixed his wife's gaze was. She wasn't looking at Paris, she was far away. He hugged her and pulled her from the rail. "Come on, you will grow cold here."

Christine tucked herself as close to him as she could as they walked back to their room.

~*~

Percival dit LaFougère was ready to chew on his felt hat. This habit of being called into the offices when he should be starting his rounds in the Opera was getting to be a bothersome routine. Although he had no one but the managers to report directly to, he prided himself on being on time and on duty every day without the need of appearing before superiors. It was all part of the duties of being a special agent.

Of his fellow officers, there were a few, like that Guard Captain Daubegeon, who looked at his position as one ripe for slack duty. Thinking along those lines, Daubegeon himself was more than a candidate to win the award for unused potential while in uniform. The man did nothing but carp about the Opera Ghost. He insisted that Percival come in again.

Called in after cooling his heels in the hallway, Percival was in no mood to suffer fools gladly or otherwise. Inside the office was his long suffering Commander, and Daubegeon who was seated next to the Commander's desk. Before them were the guards who had gone down to Erik's home. They stood at attention. Percival halted at the end of the line and saluted his Commander.

"Sergeant dit LaFougère," Daubegeon drawled.

"Lieutenant," the Commander supplied.

Daubegeon ignored the man. "My men have reported meeting the Opera Ghost. How is this possible? I believe you told me that no one could produce this man."

Percival counted to ten while framing his answer. "I believe your men were fortunate, Captain. Rather than demanding the man appear, they sought him out. The Ghost exhibits a grudging respect for those who do not attempt to barge into his part of the cellars." He paused and added another qualifier to his response. "If they come peacefully, that is."

The Captain appeared startled as he looked at the men. "You went unarmed?"

Lieutenant de Montmirail spoke up. "We didn't think it would be necessary--."

Daubegeon snorted. "You didn't think? I'll say you didn't. Did you form this decision upon Sergeant dit LaFougère's suggestion?"

"Lieutenant," the Commander reminded him through clenched teeth.

Percival kept reminding himself that thrashing a superior would add a very dark mark on his record. He settled for seething quietly and taking deep breaths. There was the sound of creaking leather as his gloved hands fisted and relaxed.

"I hardly think him worthy of his commission if he cannot arrest one old hermit," Daubegeon growled.

The Commander yanked open a desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. He ripped his pen from its holder and scrawled something across the page. "Congratulations, Captain dit LaFougère," he pronounced carefully, as if to be sure Daubegeon had the time to grasp the meaning of his words.

Percival snapped to attention. "Sir?"

"I can't thank you enough for your dedication to duty, Percival. Paris thanks you. Drop this at my secretary's desk on your way out. Dismissed." He waved an impatient hand. "All of you are dismissed, except for you." He jabbed a finger at Daubegeon.

Percival evacuated with office with the other guards at his heels. They weren't very far from the door before the Commander's voice sounded, threatening to shake the building to the rafters.


	18. Chapter 18

**18.**

Percival sat by lamp light in the converted storeroom that served as a small hidey-hole and office for him while under the Opera. Lying upon the scarred table with one short leg was the order the Commander had signed. It was indeed a field promotion.

All it meant was buying another set of rank insignia and sewing them on. No one would pin them on in a ceremony. No one would throw a party for him, or greet him happily at the news.

Sometimes being a ghost really was awful. Everyone knew when you made a mistake, but none of them congratulated you on doing your job well.

He rubbed a hand across his chin. He hated to admit it, but he was starting to miss Erik. At least he could look forward to someone to talk to while he was below stairs, even at the expense of being on the receiving end of Erik's sharp witticisms.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He was officially off duty now, the last of the patrons had been shooed out of the doors and the entertainers were done for the night. Snatching up the remains of a wine bottle he had borrowed from the kitchen, he headed down to the lake.

If no one else was around, at least the Siren would listen to him.

~*~

Erik muttered under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

He snapped his watch closed. "I almost forgot. I was to meet La Chance and de Brie at the Opera tonight."

"You were?" Mirielle looked amused.

"Yes. I promised them I'd give them some sort of interview." He looked apologetic as he gazed at his wife. "If I had remembered, I would have met them when I was down by the lake with those guards. Two birds with one stone, and all that."

"Well," she drawled. "I suppose I can just turn in for the evening and read. You could bring me a night cap when you come back."

"I shouldn't wake you, Mirielle. This is all my fault."

"Nonsense, dear." She smiled serenely. "That is the advantage of being married isn't it? We always wind up in bed together?"

He looked over her shinning eyes and her sultry smile. "I'll be right back." With that he was out the door like a shot.

Mirielle grinned behind her napkin as she blotted her lips. "I bet you will….."

~*~

In the rotunda of mirrors where he had allowed La Chance to see him, Erik waited. The patrons were headed towards their cabs and carriages, too busy with talking to note the tall, somber gent who stood in the shadows beside the red Jura stone pillars.

La Chance and de Brie arrived together, accompanied by another familiar face. Erik stepped out from behind the column. "Mademoiselle Claretie. How are you this evening?"

"Good evening," she said with a smile. "I hope you don't mind me tagging along."

She and de Brie looked relaxed. La Chance stood stiffly. Erik nodded to him. "I saw your story."

De Brie shot a glance at La Chance, who appeared to come to life. "I have you to thank for it."

"Nonsense." Erik waved the comment aside. "We all did our part. I was most pleased you included the names of the people behind the scenes who helped. It never hurts to remember the small while climbing your way to the top."

"I think he's learned that," de Brie agreed.

And so, Erik thought, the young lion has learned from the older one. There was no harm in being bold, only in doing it at the expense of others. La Chance did not lack the abilities, only the finesse, and he seemed to be a willing student. Solange Claretie had confided in Mirielle as they had watched _Aida_ that fateful night that La Chance lived with his almost invalid mother. While it hardly excused some of his briskness, it did serve to illuminate his reasons behind it.

"I thought you might appreciate a tour of the building."

"The lake?" La Chance blurted.

"Specifically the lake. I have a proposal for you young people."

~*~

Erik led them through the same halls that the guards had blundered through, with one exception. He thought it amusing to note La Chance's squirms as he explained the device that pitched him and the other men into the Paris sewers. Solange and de Brie smothered grins as they watched the mechanism wind up and release. "I have disabled the portal. No one will be winding up there anymore."

"Why the traps?"

Erik regarded La Chance who carried the lantern. "I value my privacy. When we reach my lake you will understand."

The hall of faces had left an indelible impression, but the hall of the Siren caused them to walk looking over their shoulders. Erik could have allayed their fears, but what good was there in deflating the suspense of his audience?

Once a showman…..

The lake stretched before them like a sheet of dark glass. His visitors gathered at the edge to look down at the surface. Erik wondered if they truly believed his mythical mistress of the deep would pop up and wag her fins at them like a trained seal. All sorts of mischievous thoughts filled his head, but he squashed the idea in favor of not chasing down errant reporters, taking the chance on a fainting woman, or being late to get home to his wife.

While they gawked at his home, with the gas lights starting to flare and illuminate circles beyond his windows, he triggered the switch that caused the boat to come back to the quay. It never occurred to him to ponder why the boat was on the far side.

"Oh my God," Solange whispered tightly. She'd grasped a handful of La Chance's sleeve. "There is someone over there!"

The door was ajar, and framed in it was Percival dit LaFougère. Erik called out, "Percival?"

"Erik?"

He stifled a groan. "Who else?"

De Brie was close enough to hear his reply and smirked. Erik made a swift introduction, "You all remember Percival, don't you?"

Arranging the group, he ferried across de Brie and Solange Claretie first and La Chance on the next trip. Percival had stepped forward to offer Solange a hand out of the boat. Inside his home, Erik invited them to sit.

dit LaFougère took up a spot next to his fireplace. Erik noted one of his cut crystal glasses sat on the mantle with liquid in it.

"I've been debating the answer to our security problems here at the Opera now that Percival is the soul guardian. The managers believe, and I think rightly so, that there needs to be some system of watching over the patrons more closely." He paused to let the information sink in. "I was thinking since you Zacharie and you La Chance are both reporters, it would not seem unusual for either of you to appear in the crowds some evenings. You Mademoiselle also work evenings, I believe?"

"Yes."

"If the three of you are willing, I'd like to breach the subject of you being put on the payroll for the evenings that you could be on the premises and circulate the building. Having someone who could visit boxes or sit in the auditorium would help. As well as, if you will pardon the comment, a person to check out the facilities."

"What facilities?" Percival asked.

Erik gritted his teeth and glared at dit LaFougère. "The water closet?"

"Oh." Percival looked abashed. "Those facilities."

"If more people were available, working in concert as we did the other evening, I believe the managers would feel more secure." Erik fixed Percival with a gaze. "They have great faith in you, Percival. You know the cellars as well as I. But you are only one man now that I am no longer in residence.

"My wife and I plan to attend the Opera, of course, but we cannot be here for every performance." He laughed softly. "We have prior arrangements."

"How is Madame Vachon?" de Brie asked.

"Well. Although she did turn her ankle." His guests sat in silence, looking like occupants of Rome's coliseum awaiting the lions. "Oh, for heaven's sake. You mean everyone is talking about Christine Daae's return?"

De Brie adjusted his glasses. "You have to admit that everyone is a bit—curious."

Erik rolled his eyes. "All right." He snatched his pocket watch from his vest. "I'll explain on the way back up."

As they funneled out of the door, Percival pulled it closed. The lights in the house dimmed, barely illuminating the path to the boat. Solange gathered her skirts and looked down at her feet.

"Careful," he cautioned. "The gravel is loose." He offered his hand to her.

"Thank you." She stood waiting next to him as Erik polled the boat back across the water. "You have something to tell him."

Percival glanced at her in surprise.

She looked almost shyly at him. "Sorry. Part of my occupation."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a spiritualist. I—I get these images in my mind." She looked back at the water. "Three of something. Something like lines."

He started, staring down at her. "Three bars."

"Yes?"

"I—I was promoted to Captain. The boards," he indicated his shoulder. "There are three white bars for Captain."

"Oh? That's very nice. Was it for bravery?"

He resisted the urge to laugh out loud. "Not the sort you might think of."

"Not for the other evening?"

"I'm surprised you remembered—with all the screaming and the gun shot."

"I will never forget."

She was a tall woman. Percival had done the usual perusal of her figure, being a healthy male. It was the way she tilted her head that captured his interest. It also strangled his tongue. "Uh…."

Erik's voice cut through the darkness. "Are you going to get in the boat?"

Solange stood looking up and him.

"Percival?"

"Yes, Erik?"

"Will you help the Mademoiselle into the boat?"

He could have kicked himself. Rather than blurt out something, he snatched Solange Claretie up in his arms and sat her in the boat. He perched on the seat next to her, waiting for Erik to start the boat moving.

Inside his mask, the glowing golden eyes appeared to roll towards heaven. "I meant offer her a hand….."

Percival's palms itched. He realized in his exuberance he had picked up Solange. He kept his eyes focused on the lantern on the stern that swung to and fro with the motion of the boat. Maybe the light would call up the Siren to swallow him and he would not have to suffer the embarrassment of facing Solange again.


	19. Chapter 19

**19.**

The boat bumped along the quay on the opposite side. La Chance was out first, helping to tie off the lines. De Brie offered a hand to Solange. While she grasped his hand, she reached instinctively and took hold of Percival's arm. "Sorry," she apologized. "I'm not good with boats."

Biting his tongue to keep from saying something ridiculous, Percival clung to her elbow until Solange had gained her footing on the quay and steadied herself. With the lanterns behind her, her hair glowed golden about her face. Percival thought she might be smiling.

"Excuse me?" Percival started as he heard Erik's voice, a low growl, next to him.

"I'd like to get home sometime before the wee hours of dawn," Erik groused.

Percival stepped aside and bumped into the seat he had just risen from. Shooting out a hand, he grabbed a handful of Erik's jacket to keep from toppling. Erik's hands were thin fingered, but very strong. He hauled Percival straight and glared at him, his eyes looking bronze. An irritated bronze at that.

With a slight shake of his head, Erik leapt up onto the quay and led the group away from the lake. He led them to an intersection Percival knew well. Erik pointed to the stairs that arched over their heads. "This is as far as you go. If by some miracle you make it down below to this point, I want you to stop here. Until you learn to navigate the cellars, it can still be dangerous. Leave any messages upstairs tucked behind Gounod's bust or in box five." He shook his head. "For that matter, leave it with the managers. They will be sure that it finds its way to me.

"I do want to have your answers about watching over the opera. You need not commit to it tonight. Take your time. Even if you can only visit on occasion, I'm sure that we will all be thankful for your help."

"Are their plans to increase the guards?" La Chance asked.

Erik indicated Percival. "He can keep you up to date on that." Erik took a step back and indicated the stairs with a sweeping gesture. "I bid you a pleasant evening. Straight up and you will find yourself in the second cellar. From there the stairs can be easily found." He grinned at La Chance. "You've had a chance to see the cellars, haven't you?"

La Chance nodded. "When I came down with the dogs."

de Brie was already grinning. "Has anyone done that before?"

"No," Erik replied. " If they get as far as the bottom of the second cellar, I would leave the traps ready for them. It stopped most of the intruders."

"But there have been others," La Chance pressed.

"One gentleman has been most assiduous in his quest."

"Who?"

"The Persian fellow. Monsieur Khan."

"I-I don't understand." La Chance's face was a study in confusion. "He is your friend."

"Yes, he is." Erik allowed another smile to slide like a sliver of the moon between the darkness of the shadows and his mask. "Sometimes being a friend is difficult. He's been with me since Persia."

"You were in Persia!" de Brie inched forwards.

"That is a tale for another evening. I've given you much to decide upon and my wife is waiting." Erik lifted a gloved hand. "Don't look crestfallen. We should set up another meeting. Say in a weeks' time? By then we can start training whoever decides to join our cause."

Nods and affirmative replies were enough for Erik. He waggled long fingers towards the stairs. "Along with you then."

With murmurs of thanks, they grouped at the bottom step. Solange was lined up between de Brie and La Chance, but turned to look at Percival. Erik noticed the rigid posture of the officer and wondered if he should mention the man's sleeve was precariously close to the flame in the lantern. Percival must have felt it, for he snatched back, shaking the lantern and plunging the corridor in reeling shadows. The others froze upon the stairs until Percival transferred the lantern to his other hand.

As the group climbed up and out of his line of vision, Erik slid a glance towards dit LaFougère . "When did that start?"

"What?" Percival growled.

"You know very well. You always get clumsy when women appear."

"I do not."

Erik hooted with laughter. "You threw your hat away when you were sweeping a bow before Mirielle."

Percival scrapped the toe of his boot along a line on the floor. "I was surprised."

"That you were. But you are hopeless around women." Erik held up a hand to forestall a tirade about to erupt from Percival's lips. "Listen. If I can spend an evening with a woman and wind up married—there's hope for you. Just don't throw your hat at her."

"Who?"

"That stunning blond who just traipsed up the stairs, you ninny."

Percival craned his neck, leaning forward to look up the stairs. "You think she's stunning?"

"A nymph, a goddess," Erik assured him.

Percival shrugged inside his jacket and adjusted the large brimmed felt hat. "She is tall. I think I like tall women."

"Did you notice she said she works evening?"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

Erik kept the exasperation from his voice. "She'll be here. You will be here. You both sleep late in the morning, don't you? You have to have acquaintances with the same sort of schedule…." He let his words trail in to silence as the wheels were already set in motion behind Percival's gaze. "Breakfast," he prompted. "Or a late supper. Something light and pleasing."

"I—I think she wouldn't like the cafe I--."

"Faugh! Don't think, man! If you can't influence her with wine or dinner, then at least offer to walk her home!"

"Of course." Percival straightened. "I wouldn't expect a woman to go about unescorted."

"Yes, she would need protection. Out there in the dark. All alone." Erik replied, stepping back against what looked like a door frame. He moved into a step and then disappeared against the brick wall.

"Protection," Percival muttered, stepping forward. He stopped short as his booted toe struck the wall. Running his hand up and around the doorframe, he found solid rows of bricks. "How does he do that?"

~*~

Cabs were closing down for the night, but Erik managed to find one busy dropping a pair of drunken men at a corner. He stood alongside until the two men had tumbled out and flashed a Franc note at the driver. The man nodded and Erik slid into the cab and pulled out his pocket watch. It was nearly ten o'clock.

Arriving at his home, he paid the driver and left a hefty tip. Despite the number of cabbies in Paris, the ones who he gave patronage to seemed to remember his generosity.

Withdrawing his key, he opened his door and tossed his hat upon the hall tree. From the glow radiating along the floorboards, he thought Anais might have left a scone lit in his parlor. He stepped into the doorway and saw his wife, covered in a blanket and reclining upon the settee.

Fearing she might have had a relapse with her ankle, he moved swiftly to her side. "Mirielle?"

"Hello dear," she sighed. With one sweeping movement she tossed the blanket off of her body, revealing the gown she had worn on their wedding night.

As relief settled within him, he noticed two flutes filled with liquor sat on the table. Candlesticks graced the mantel and other surfaces about the room. His wife reclined with a sensuous smile as the light painted lines of gold in her hair and down the surface of her curves.

"Tempting wench…."

"Lover," she purred like a kitten. She raised her leg, sliding it along the other and indicated her ankle. "I think it's much, much better."

Her husky voice enflamed whatever last nerve endings he believed he held any control over.


	20. Chapter 20

**20. Erik**

"You are supposed to be recovering." I fix my wife with a stern gaze which she ignores.

"I am." She bats her eyes prettily. "I am. You _are_ a magician."

"I have a magic wand?"

"Mmmm. Yes you do."

Erik does now. It's a wonder _the thing_ doesn't poke her in the eye.

Why my wife fell in love with me still causes me wonder. That she has a wonderfully playful sense of sexuality is my constant amazement. Erik likes the games Mirielle plays.

"You are a shameless little rogue," I scold.

"And you are the Baron of sex, aren't you?"

"And you must be the woman that flirtatious creature in the garden promised me today."

"Come down here and find out." Her voice drops to a sultry timbre. Why I thought my voice held any power is beyond me. The rich texture of hers is like warm velvet. Erik grows another inch just listening to it.

"On the settee?" I attempt a scolding tone. "What will the maid think when she finds a pile of clothes down here?" Regardless of my words, I sit at my wife's feet.

She smiles at me with a little shrug that causes one shoulder strap to dip delightfully, folding the fabric of her gown to mold over the curve of her breast. It is the last challenge she need issue. We have moved beyond the realm pretense and teasing.

I touch her ankle lightly. "My hands are cold."

It is a sensitive subject with me, even beyond the mask. All those years below the opera, and being naturally spare of frame, I was cold. Damp air and lack of light always left me feeling the chill. It was only the fire inside of me for my music and for Christine that gave me any warmth.

"You've been outside," Mirielle replies. She extends her hands to me. "You can warm them up."

I take one of her hands and kiss it. Her palm is warm against my face. Always, always, my wife is soft and warm and welcoming. In the darkness I have slid my mask off, wanting every bit of her warmth to seep into my sad and ruined countenance. It is an act even more intimate than our sexual adventures.

But Erik must stop thinking these things. The candles are lit and the mask stays. For now. My wife has waited up for me, and I can no longer wait myself.

I start at her ankles with light touches and kisses to her thighs. The gown bunches softly around her hips. Her hands knead my shoulders.

"Take off your clothes, darling."

I am instantly on my feet and sliding my jacket off. I jerk impatiently at my cravat after tossing the stick pin onto the table. It makes a ringing sound as it strikes one of the glasses. "Wine?"

She shakes her head and I continue pulling at clothing. Mirielle rolls up gracefully and the gown is lifted over her head. It swirls to the floor to join my shirt. Her hands are snatching at the buttons on my trousers and I groan in anticipation.

We arrange ourselves on the narrow settee with a number of giggles from my wife. When she moans deeply, I sense she is ready. We reach our passion is a heady rush and I relax, shifting my weight from her and push off of the settee. Beside it, on the floor, I lay back and catch my breath.

Mirielle rolls to the edge and looks down at me. Her hand appears and I hold it. With a gentle squeeze she tells me to let go. Her fingers slide through mine. She rests her hand upon my chest, and then she reaches for my face.

My breath arrests as I watch her eyes. Her gaze is filled with such longing. Her palm is warm as it rests over my cavernous cheek.

"You're eyes look brown," she whispers.

"The light." My voice is a thin reed of sound.

Her fingers never move, but her gazes roves my features. I am only fooling myself. She must know by now what an ugly assortment of flesh makes up my face.

"I love you…." My voice fails me. Taking a shaking breath I reach for the ties. They slip free with a sigh. I watch my wife's face as I take hold at the temple of the mask and begin to slide it from my face.

"Wait." Her hand appears before my eyes. It drops slowly and rests on the back of mine as I hold the mask, hovering over my face.

"Together," I manage.

"Together." Her smile is tremulous, her eyes are shinning.

I draw my hand into a fist, the fabric lifting away. Cool air passes over my skin. My wife's hand is warm against mine.

I never look away from her. She blinks and a tear falls like a bead of crystal. It is followed by another and another that trail down her cheek.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Mirielle. It is Erik."

My voice dissolves something between us. I feel tears spring to my own eyes. In a flurry of movement she leaves the settee and is on the floor next to me, pulling the blanket over both of us. She lies on her side, every inch of her flesh next to mine and I hold her.

She weeps. Do tears of joy and sadness mingle? Can you be happy and destroyed at one time?

No words pass between us as we lay grasping desperately onto one another. She shivers and makes a mewling sound. It is I who feel sorry for her.

"Hush," I whisper against her temple.

Her breathing is ragged, my poor girl. I wrap her in the blanket and pull away. Fishing through my pockets I bring back a handkerchief for her. She makes a choking sound and I insist that she sits up.

"Wine?"

Mirielle blots at her eyes and nods her head. On my knees, I stretch across and retrieve one of the glasses. She takes it and leans against me, her head against my chest. We find ourselves sitting on the floor with the settee at our backs. My mask lays upon the carpet, a dark shape with multicolored eyes where the colors peek through from below.

Pressed against me, her arm about me, my wife is telling me things that words cannot express. Am I hideous to look upon? Yes. She accepts it. I have told her enough times, and heard her say that she loves me for Erik, not the mask. It has been an article of clothing to her and a hindrance to our relationship.

"Talk to me," she says at last.

"What would you like to hear?"

"I don't know. I just want to hear your voice. I can't—I can't quite see you as Erik yet."

"You have the strangest way with words, Madame."

She looks up at me at last. "I've never seen all of you when you speak."

"Ah." I look down at her searching gaze. I think now that she believes this another mask. Another she will in time learn to see as the Erik she knows. "You are beautiful."

A smile flitters along her lips. "Keep talking."

"Have I made you happy?"

"Yes."

"This is what you live with, you know."

"I know."

"We should go to bed. You can't be comfortable here on the floor."

"All right."

I get to my feet and pull on my trousers while Mirielle tosses her gown over her head and settles the silk against her. I offer her a hand to help her up, but she turns and with careful fingers picks up my mask. She examines it for a moment, looking much like our grandson Henri when he has found something new. She clutches it to her breast and looks up at my face.

My wife's eyes are red-rimmed and her nose is a similar color. There is a lost look in her eyes, but her love comes to me from the hand that grips mine.

"Shall I put it back on?"

A vee appears between her dark brows. She clutches the dark silk to her. "Not yet." She pauses and then looks down at it. "Unless you wish to….."

I see her responses for what they are. Mirielle has been offered something and is still reeling from the gesture. I wonder that I am not.

Life has made her a strong woman. She neither quakes in fear nor shies away with superstitious dread. She speaks to her husband even when she is unfamiliar with the face he suddenly wears.

I can feel the ring upon her finger, the one I shook the bad luck from during the wedding. On my hand is the ring she gave me with the words etched inside the rim. I shake my head. "As my wife wishes--."

"Oh, God." Tears well up in her eyes again. "I wish--"

"I know." I kiss her fingers, the knuckles of her hand. "I know."

She bravely quells the next river of tears. "I suppose you do. There can't be anything I could say that you have not said before."

"No. All my words were ignored. Until I found you." I take my wife's tear-stained face in my hands. "I have never made anything as beautiful as you."

I've almost undone her again, but she shakes her head and looks away. "Don't be silly. You are an artist."

"But you made me."

"I found you, that's all."

"You tell me over and over that there are things in me that I doubt the existence of."

"They are there." A trace of her teasing returns and a little of the tension that I had not realized gripped me began to relent

"Madame Vachon. Your toes are chill." I sweep her up in my arms and carry her, protesting every step of the way, towards the stairs."

"Erik, you shouldn't…I can walk…"

"Hush, woman. You've seen the rafters of the opera house. If I can swing from one set of beams to another, I can manage to carry my wife up a set of stairs."

"I suppose--."

"Suppose?" I protest with a growl. "You aren't questioning my manly abilities are you?" I waggle a brow at her.

I stop on the stairs, watching the transfixed look upon Mirielle's face. Her finger gently traces the broken surface of the ridge around my left eye. I get a furious tingling sensation in my face when she does it. I want her to do it again, and so I repeat the motion. My wife wears the sort of grin a cat adopts while it watches a mouse.

My face isn't the only thing that responds. The maestro butts his head in, if you will pardon the crude pun.

Oh damn. I never thought being unmasked would lead to this sort of predicament. "Mirielle?"

"Oh, yes," she sighed.

"Oh, God."

"Oh, Erik."

I set her down at the top of the stairs and begin to ravage my willing wife. If she stumbled, I caught her and if she pulled me close for more, I gave it to her. We found our way to our bed and fell upon it and each other in a frenzy or tossing aside gowns and sheets and trousers.

The maestro was in fine form and my wife left scratches on my back. We fell into an exhausted sleep. A man and his wife on an ordinary bed in an ordinary house on a mundane but tidy Parisian street.

I had achieved the Nirvana the Easterners seek. I was ordinary.

~*~

A/N: I'd appreciate any comments you have on this one. It fit them somehow, but has to be recorded as one of the strangest unmaskings...:)


	21. Chapter 21

**21**

Morning came swiftly. Mirielle blinked against the pink light that speared through the closed drapes. Erik's side of the bed was empty. Stretching out a hand, she groped along his pillow. Neither it nor the nightstand had a mask lying upon it.

She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was already eight o'clock. Erik always got up first. He said he required less sleep than other people. It was part and parcel to his boundless curiosity and indefatigable energy. But by now he would have made the coffee and retrieved the newspaper.

A dread coiled in her. She kicked her legs free of the covers and searched the foot of the bed for her robe. She made it to the landing of the stairs before she hesitated.

Was Erik angry? Was he regretting his actions, his revelation of his face?

She closed her eyes and held her breath. _Foolish woman! Did you tell him you love him?_ She asked herself. _Did you say it didn't matter?_

It didn't. Not in the light of day. They were still man and wife. He hadn't been angry, or upset. Although with Erik, some of his emotions were bone deep and just as well hidden. Too many years alone. She took hold of the banister and tested her foot on the first step.

Over the sound of her gown and robe sweeping the stair carpet, she heard his voice. He was humming to himself, much as he was used to doing. The smell of fresh coffee and the folding of a newspaper preceded him from the kitchen. As he stepped up onto the stairs, he looked up in surprise. "Did I wake you?"

Mirielle shook her head numbly. The mask was back in place. Her husband appeared as he did every morning—consumed by his own thoughts until he had his coffee.

"Shall I bring you a coffee?" he asked politely.

"No, thank you."

He stood, looking up at her. "Are you all right?"

She busied her fingers with drawing her robe about her and tying the sash. "Are you? Dear?"

Erik's eyes looked amber once again. "Yes, I am."

"You--. You were gone. It's all ready eight o'clock."

"I slept in. I must have been tired."

Tired or emotionally exhausted, she realized. How often had her care of her afflicted husband in his last months wrung everything out of her? A bout of tears in a quiet corner away from him had been her release.

Erik bent forward and sat his cup upon the stairs and dropped the paper beside it. Looking up at her face, he came up the stairs to stop before her. Being tall and standing a step down, their gazes met. "I'm fine, dear girl."

Still shaken, she clasped her hands in her pockets. "I thought maybe last night I had said something wrong."

"Not at all, Mirielle." He stepped up next to her. "Upstairs or down? I can have Anais send up some breakfast if you'd like to stay warm in bed? I lit the stove." He pointed down the stairs. "Why don't I bring you a nice cup of hot coffee? Go on, dear girl. Climb back into bed and I'll bring it up to you." He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

"Yes, dear." Mirielle turned away and went back to her bedroom. Rather than her bed, she went to the water closet. Closing the door, she put her back against it and covered her mouth. Hot tears rolled down her face. She didn't hear him come back—Erik was always so quiet. She became aware of the soft pressure on the door and then his arms around her. His hand rested upon her hair, holding her to his lapel as she wept.

Mirielle clutched at his sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You have given me a treasure beyond my wildest hopes."

She looked up at the dark mask and her husband's eyes, Erik's eyes. He waved a hand, and a handkerchief appeared. His lips smiled at the edge of the mask.

"Come, sweet girl. Your coffee will get cold and so will your feet. I shant have you greet the spring with a fever."

She turned away and blew her nose, seeing her red-rimmed eyes and her disheveled hair in the mirror. Erik appeared behind her, his hands holding her shoulders.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, walking her back and tucking her into the bed robe and all. He put his pillow behind hers and settled the covers across her lap. With a fingertip, he brushed a tendril of hair from her temple. "You were perfect."

Taking a deep breath she turned her cheek towards his palm. "I wasn't foolish?"

A spark lit the buttery depths of his irises. "All women should be such fools. You, my dear, were splendid. Aphrodite incarnate. More than a match for the Baron."

"Oh", she scolded. "Not that. I meant when we were down stairs."

"I know what you meant," he voice vibrated with an energy that made her melt. "You were the loving woman that I married. I have no regrets. Do you?"

"No, Erik. I only thought…that maybe I did not say enough."

"You told me everything you could. It was a shock for both of us. I hadn't planned on it, dear. It just happened." He leaned away from her and retrieved the cup. "Have some coffee."

"Thank you," she replied. Closing her eyes, she took a sip of the hot liquid.

Erik got up from the bed. "I'll bring up the newspaper."

"Of course, dear." Mirielle watched his retreat. He hummed as he went down the stairs. With a sigh, she sat the cup and saucer on her lap.

Erik was busying himself in the routine of the morning. What had passed between them last night was brushed aside with the light of day. It was how Erik handled his feelings. Like all men, he appeared to be able to compartmentalize his emotions. They ran as deep as currents that moved along the ocean, only to disappear in the distance. When he was ready to deal with the mask again, or remove it, he would do so. She would wait patiently; drifting along on the tide until it once again broke on a shore.

He slipped back into the room, balancing his own cup and saucer.

"Was that _Les Huguenots_?" she asked.

He glanced down at her. "No, but is one of Meyerbeer's."

"_Robert le Diable_?"

Erik tutted. "It's _Hirtenlied_. I'm writing a variation on it."

With that, they each sat sipping coffee and looking over the news. The morning had begun in the Vachon household.

~*~

Lunch was a light affair. Mirielle brought a plate to her husband and insisted he take a break from his harmonium. Erik looked her over from her hair tucked up under a scarf to her shoes which were at the hem of her housedress and apron.

"Good heavens. Is the house so dirty that you must help Anais?"

"I want everything to look nice," Mirielle protested. She produced a cloth from her apron pocket and wiped at the surface of the instrument. "It's our first dinner party."

"Perhaps our last," Erik muttered.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me," he complained. "I don't want to eat dinner with you-know-who."

"Sometimes I think they should have called you the hermit of the opera."

Erik cast a wry glance at his wife. The witty retort he had thought of lay stillborn upon his lips. His wife was looking at him in a most interesting way. There was a coy tilt to her head, her dark lashes brushed against her cheek. She had demurred in such a manner when they had first laid eyes upon one another the previous year.

Again Erik wondered if it was possible to fall in love with the same woman. Her bashful looks were a response to their previous intimacy. Not the tussle on the settee or the bed, but the mask.

Deciding this new facet of his wife's behavior was a direct result of his own, he resolved to study it deeply. For the moment, they would play their parts as they had before. "Faugh. Hermit," he grumbled. "That conjures the picture of some impoverished monk in a threadbare robe, tied at the waist with an old rope." He lifted a hand above his head. "Not that I have more hair than a tonsure."

"I meant how you keep to yourself still," she chided.

"I have no idea what you mean," he protested. "We go to dinner. We visit with Nadir." He whipped up a hand dramatically. "I just got married in front of half of Paris. I've taught lessons at the opera and now I find myself their security advisor." He placed his hands back on the keys. "I've rescued lost guards."

"How was your meeting last night?"

"Heaven help us—Percival is in love."

"What?" Mirielle grinned hugely. She came around the end of the harmonium in a bustle of skirts and scooted against Erik's hip, forcing him to move over. "Tell me."

"You really don't want to hear that nonsense do you?"

"Erik!"

"Evidently you do. You know you are as bad as Nadir. He has an excuse for it. He was a policeman."

His wife crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Erik made a show of relenting. "Solange Claretie came down with La Chance and de Brie."

"What a surprise."

"It was. Come to think of it, she is only the third female to ever visit my house."

"The lake house?"

"How many others do I have? You haven't been out shopping again have you?" He shot her a withering glance, which Mirielle promptly snorted at. "I leave for a lesson and I come home to a gardener. What was his name? Rafinesque?"

"Gus."

"Gus, the rose ambusher?"

Mirielle made a face. "What do you mean?"

"He has scratches over the backs of his hands. Looks like he's been in a row with a load of thorns."

"You noticed the bushes next door," she accused.

"Yes. I also noticed that you are sitting so that I cannot play my harmonium. Didn't you say you wanted the house clean?"

"Sometimes you are an oaf." She shot to her feet. "You just don't want to tell me about Percival."

"There isn't much to tell," Erik admitted. "You've seen how he gets around a woman. I told him not to toss his hat away this time." He waited until Mirielle bent over a table and began polishing the surface. "I do like the way your hips move when you do that."

Mirielle straightened and glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, go play with your instrument." She bustled out of the room in a huff.

Erik continued playing, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The old fire had returned to his wife's eyes.

Nothing made him happier.


	22. Chapter 22

**22.**

Raoul de Chagny watched his wife hurry back and forth across their hotel room. Sitting with the newspaper in front of him, he peered over the top when he heard her skirt swishing by.

First she had passed in her robe, saying something about her jewelry. The next time she was scolding herself for putting her fingernail through her stocking. He reassured her the only one who would know there was a hole was him. She appeared mollified and stalked off, pulling pins from her hair.

"What about this one?"

He dropped the paper and looked one more time at the dress she held up. Traveling as they had, she had only brought two dresses suitable for a dinner. One was a pale emerald satin, accentuated by dark stripes, the other was an austere black bombazine. She held up the black, its rich dark texture did look nice compared to her pale skin and golden hair. But it aged her, making her appear small and wan.

"I like the other one, Chris."

"You do?" She looked down at the gown in disappointment.

"Do you prefer the dark one?"

"I don't know." Her shoulders drooped. "It is very formal," she replied hopefully.

Raoul got to his feet and took hold of the hanger. "It's suitable for a wake, Chris. This is a dinner."

Her lovely mouth turned down. "I hadn't thought of that." She took the hanger from him, holding the dress away from her.

"The emerald will be fine. It's light and fresh looking, like spring." He stepped away from her, towards the window. The light pierced the lace curtains, etching her soft form in her cotton undergarments and her corset. She dropped the skirt over her head and he went to help her button the back.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said softly. Christine hugged herself as she waited on her husband to finish. Her eyes drifted closed as she felt his warm breath near her neck. His strong hands rested upon her hips. She shivered as his lips brushed her ear.

"Raoul!" she protested. "I'm half dressed."

"I know," he growled against her throat.

"My hair."

"I'll comb it for you."

"We will be late--." She gasped softly as his arms pulled her fast against him. His lips traced the line of her neck to her shoulder.

"It's considered fashionable."

She twisted to look at her husband. His blue eyes were bright and intense.

"Leave the stockings on," he whispered against her lips.

Christine gasped. "That's lewd." She was struggling for breath and pulling open her corset even as her husband was pulling her skirt back off. He laid it carefully over the back of a chair and turned to her.

"This isn't decent. It's still daylight."

"We're married, Chris," Raoul chuckled.

"You won't look will you?"

"Christina Eleonora Birgit Daae--" Raoul walked her back to the edge of the bed. "I will not close my eyes."

"Oh….oh….oh, you are so naughty…."

~*~

Mirielle hurried to the door calling over her shoulder, "I'll answer it!"

On the stoop stood a young woman dressed in an immaculate dark dress and a bright, starched maid's apron. He hair was a reddish brown, her skin golden, and her eyes a bright amber like a tiger's. She curtsied. "Do I have the honor of addressing Madame Vachon?"

"Yes, dear. Come in, come in. You must be Fanchon?"

"Yes, Madame. But everyone calls me Fannie."

Anais peeked through the kitchen door. "There you are, Fannie!"

"Hello, Anais," Fanchon replied.

Mirielle pointed down the hallway. "Here, let me show you the dining room and then the kitchen. We are having two couples join us. Anais tells me you work in Paris."

"Yes, Madame. I also hire out for dinner parties. I'm saving money for my trousseau."

Mirielle was taken aback. "But you are so young."

"I'll be seventeen. My papa will not let me wed before my birthday."

"I should think not," Mirielle agreed. She scolded herself for being a busy-body. She had been seventeen and pregnant when she went to the altar. Some things never changed.

~*~

Erik hummed while adjusting his cravat in the mirror on the wardrobe's door while Mirielle pinned her hair in the water closet.

"Is that your variation?" she called.

He glanced at the direction of his wife's voice. "Yes, I've decided to change one of the passages."

Mirielle's blue eyes peered around the corner of the door. "Isn't that why they call them variations?"

"Ha-ha." He was going to amend his wife's musical knowledge when a movement in the back garden below the window caught his eye. "I'll be right back."

~*~

Erik slipped through the kitchen and out of the door, only half paying attention to Anais' voice as it floated in from the dining room. Out on the steps, he pulled the door closed and stepped carefully around the puddles that lay like miniature lakes on the flagstones around the house.

Gus was bent over something near the river. He hadn't stopped by the house to Erik's knowledge. Thinking he might be bringing in some of the stone they spoke of, Erik walked jauntily beneath the trees. He stopped short when he saw white he believed was the gardener's shirt actually were feathers. He kicked along some branches as he approached. No need to startle the man.

Gus was talking in a smooth tone to the creature. It was about the size of a toddler and craning its neck to look at Erik.

"What have you there?" Erik asked.

Gus straightened. "I saw it in the river. It stopped and climbed up on the stone down there. I believe the poor thing has a lame foot."

Erik approached the goose. It eyed him with distrust and started to lift a wing. Gus took hold of it and prevented it from bolting.

"Here, now," Erik soothed. "What have you done to yourself?" He squatted down next to  
Gus and examined the leg the goose held lifted off of the ground.

Gus soothed the bright white feathers. "Maybe he got it caught. It's too near spring to have gotten it frozen."

"Hard to say," Erik replied. "At least I don't see any cuts or missing toes." He looked up at the goose. "What were you going to do with him?"

Gus nodded towards the shed that bordered the Aulin property. "I thought I'd just put him in there. I can leave a pan of water and bring him something to eat tomorrow."

"Ah. Well, if we hear honking, we will know it is the new border."

"Yes, monsieur. You don't mind?"

"No, Augustin. I've always had a fondness for animals. And birds," he said for the benefit of the goose.

Erik walked back to the house, watching as Gus half herded and half carried the goose.

~*~

Fanchon Totin followed Anais down the stairs to fetch the wine. Anais carried down an older oil lamp, Fannie stayed within the orb of light. Anais paused before a rack of bottles. "We'll need Champagne for the aperitif and the Sauvignon for the main course. The Cognac for after dinner is all ready upstairs. Monsieur Vachon likes a glass of it every now and then." She pointed out one of the bottles for Fannie to retrieve. "Fannie? I need to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"It's about monsieur Vachon. He wears a mask over his face." She held up a hand and hurried to calm the girl's questions. "He was born without a nose."

Fannie wrinkled the aforementioned part of her own face. "Poor man."

"No, my dear," Anais replied, leaning close so that her breath stirred the lamp, her eyes glowing in the golden light. "He is the very image of Baron Samedi."

Fannie's jaw dropped. She clutched at the crucifix upon the bodice of her dress.

Anais caught at her hand. "Oh, Fannie. He's wonderful! He's everything you could imagine!"

Fannie licked her lips and looked about the darkness that seemed to loom closer. "The Baron?" she squeaked. "The Baron?"

"Yes!"

The girl flattened her palms against her cheeks. "What should I do?"

"Nothing, dear. Nothing. I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn't be surprised, that is all. Treat him as if he were anyone else."

"That doesn't seem right--."

"You will understand when you see them together, him and his wife."

Fannie shot her friend a dubious glance.

"Listen. After the guests leave he will want to talk to you. He needs to meet your Maman."

"Why?"

"He is going to need some things from her botanica. One of the guests is in need of a ritual."

Fannie glanced again at the darkness. "If you say so."

"Come on, we need to check the stove."

Climbing the stairs with Anais behind her, Fannie entered the kitchen just as the back door swung open. A tall angular shape in a stylish suit and jewel toned vest strode in the door, a swath of white wrapped around his face, covering him from his forehead to his lips. He wasn't at all frightening, until his unearthly golden gaze fastened upon her. She felt the bottle of Champagne slip from her nerveless fingers.


	23. Chapter 23

**23.**

Erik lunged forward, managing to catch the falling bottle with his long fingers. He straightened and looked down at the young woman. She was a pretty little thing, even with her glazed stare and her mouth open. He took a step back, setting the bottle on the kitchen table. "You must be Fanchon."

Fannie appeared to be in a daze. Anais stepped up behind her. "Fannie?" She looked over the girl's shoulder at her employer and shrugged. "I told her."

"Yes, well, I am rather startling I suppose." Erik paused and smiled at the girl. "Perhaps you should sit down for a moment?"

Anais had turned and sat her bottle down. Taking a hold of Fannie's elbow she guided the girl to the chair Erik had pulled out. Fannie made an inarticulate noise, her eyebrows arched over wide-opened eyes.

Erik leaned towards her. "Go on, my dear. I've heard about every combination of words imaginable in response to my appearance, in a myriad of languages and dialects."

Fannie folded her hands in her lap, blushing furiously. "S-sorry. You just—you."

"How do you do," Erik replied.

Fannie felt herself gaping, but was unable to pull herself out of the torpor that had seized her. "My God." She strove to get a hold of herself. "I'm sorry…I never, I mean I've never--."

"Been struck speechless?" Vachon smiled gently. His voice sounded low and so soothing, Fannie wanted to put her head down on the table and close her eyes.

His eyes shifted and she felt as if a tether had broken, setting her free. Fannie straightened and lay her palms against her heated cheeks. "I'm sorry, monsieur."

He awarded her a satisfied nod. "No harm done. We saved the Champagne."

Fannie looked at the direction the bright, brassy orbs traveled. She was horrified as she thought of the bottle of Champagne hitting the floor and shattering. The price of the bottle would be taken out of her wages. She heaved a sigh. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said easily, brushing the edge of his lapel. "I must see to my wife."

Fannie turned her head to watch his leave, craning her neck and leaning forward in the chair to watch the dark hem of his coat slip beyond her view.

"Welcome to the Vachon house."

Fannie turned to see Anais' smirk.

~*~

Mirielle was just straightening up the water closet as her husband swept into the room. For the wife of a masked man, it was important to take in every aspect of his bearing: the way he stood, his casual movements and his more pronounced ones. Erik had things on his mind when he traveled back and forth looking at the floor. But right now he just smiled at her. "I've met Fannie."

Mirielle was deciding whether to pleasantly ignore the subject in hopes it would settle upon something more intriguing, or to follow her husband's lead. She decided she had better pursue the second course, as she had been present at uncomfortable meetings with Erik. "Yes, dear?"

"She was a bit overcome."

"What do you mean overcome? Did she swoon?"

"Swoon?" Erik spat the word and blinked as if he had witnessed it take wing from the tip of his tongue. "No, but she was momentarily catatonic."

It was Mirielle's turn to blink. "Is she all right?"

"The child looks bewildered. She'll be fine."

She went to the door of the water closet as Erik stepped back. Reaching for his stick pin, she fussed with it for no reason. Erik's dress was always beyond reproach. She smoothed the cravat down over his lithely muscled chest. "Are you?" She glanced up through her lashes.

He braced a hand on the door frame, long fingers splayed over the wood. Mirielle stood silently waiting for her husband to form his reply. Erik appeared very relaxed, almost shy. His tawny gaze rolled to meet hers. "I can't believe it. If anyone had told me things would have been like this, I would not have believed them." He looked down at her face, with the shake of his head. "Only a year ago I would have been livid. I would have raged at the poor child. I would never have let her near me."

Mirielle smiled up into her husband's tawny eyes. "I suppose you are going to blame me for that?" she teased.

He snorted. "I suppose you're going to take all the credit for it!"

"Me?" She batted her eyes.

"You are a shameless little rogue," he scolded. "Butter wouldn't melt on that tongue of yours."

"Yes it would," she retorted.

He took a long moment to consider her mouth, and planted a swift kiss upon it. "Be that as it may, I think the girl is more stunned at the prospect of meeting the Baron. I shall have to consult with Anais to verify the fact."

"Did Anais speak with her?"

"She said she did, but you must understand, I've been asking Anais about her beliefs. The Loa are extremely powerful spirits. The Baron is one of the most revered. For Fannie, our meeting might have been like you opening the door and finding Saint Peter on the steps."

"Well, given time, she will get used to the idea, I suppose." Mirielle held her smile and pushed passed her husband. A fluttering began to settle in her stomach, making her long for a quick shot of Erik's Cognac. If the dinner were only with Catherine and Nadir, she would have no need to worry, but the de Chagny's had a history of being on the wrong side of Erik's dealings. Adding a timorous maid to the evening might have been a mistake. "I'm going down to see if there are any last minute changes to the menu," she announced.

"I'll just occupy myself with my music." Erik let slip a fierce grin. "Or I could go out into the garden and sharpen some stakes."

"Oh, Erik," she huffed. "Don't tease Raoul."

"_Raoul_?" He stood staring down at her with a frown. "Where's the fun in having that magniloquent patriciate under my roof if I can't taunt him a little?"

"I hope you are teasing."

He let out a low growl. "I'll behave. But I'll have you know, I shall be exercising the patience of Job."

"I'd be very appreciative if you do, dear. And so will the other guests."

He pulled open their bedroom door and held it. Mirielle preceded him down the stairs and went straight to the kitchen. Once inside, she waited a beat for the door to swing closed and the music to be begin. "So much for the Cognac," she muttered. She might have to resort to a quick taste of the cooking sherry.

Anais was at the sink, drying her hands on a towel and Fannie was stirring something in a pan. The girl looked over her shoulder at Mirielle.

"Are you all right, Fannie?"

"Yes, Madame."

Mirielle went forward and hugged the girl's shoulder. "Good girl. Very professional of you, I must add. We are expecting the Vicomte de Chagny and his bride to dine with us. Also a Persian gentleman and a good friend of mine." She glanced over at Anais. "Can I help with anything?"

Her maid shook her head. "No, Madame. Rest and enjoy the evening. Fannie and I have everything in hand."

"Well," she hesitated before the pantry door. "I suppose I shall just wait for our guests." As the maids went back to work, Mirielle side-stepped into the pantry and snatched up the sherry, swiftly stepping out of the door and into the small door that opened under the stairs. Someone had prepared the space for the gas lines, leaving a nice little niche she could almost stand erect in. Popping the cork, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a sip. And then another. With a deep sigh, she pushed the cork back in solidly and sat the bottle on a small shelf. She smiled to herself and brushed a hand down her bodice. Stepping out of the closet, she glided at a stately pace across the hall to the doorway to the parlor.

Erik was jotting something down on a sheaf of papers that sat neatly arranged on the top of the harmonium. He hummed softly to himself, sounding out the notes as he wrote them, Mirielle believed. Absorbed by his task, he looked back at the keyboard and played a series of notes.

Mirielle longed for her knitting, anything that might busy her hands and take her mind off of the steady tick and tock of the clock on the mantel. She checked the hour and got up, walking down the length of the dining table. Her china sat with gleaming cutlery framing it and bright crystal glasses at the ready. Each place had its own smaller bread plate with a butter knife. In the middle sat a vase of Narcissus, their white flowers with bright yellow centers offset by the fresh green stalks. She had selected a bright yellow linen napkin, folding them into the rings last night with Anais. It all looked perfect.

Hearing Erik still playing and the clock beating away like a mechanical heart, she turned and went back to her settee. Not five minutes more, and she was rubbing a fingertip over the top of a layer of lace on her dress. The room grew dimmer, her mind wandering until she was timing the rustle of the leaves outside with the beats of Erik's tune. She chastised herself for getting ready too early. But then, it would not do to be caught keeping her guests waiting.

She was beginning to entertain thoughts of walking out to the hall closet again, when Erik began to hum louder. He gradually finished the tune and began another, this one with words. It was a sweetly romantic little ditty from the country and Mirielle could feel herself smile. It worked much more efficiently on her nerves than the Sherry, until she heard the knock at the door.

Erik sat straight and stood up from the bench, adjusting the tails of his coat, and straightening his sleeves and cuff links. He walked with a measured step towards the settee and offered his hand. Mirielle gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. Smile in place, she turned beside her husband and faced the door to the hallway.

~*~

Nadir took one last look at the toes of his shoes. "Darius? Are these the ones I sent back?"

"No," his manservant replied. "That would be the brown pair. Is something wrong?"

"Just looking at them," Nadir replied. He straightened his trouser legs and walked to the wardrobe. Darius held his jacket. Once it was on, Nadir looked at his reflection as Darius brushed at the shoulders. "Do I look all right?"

Darius straightened with a concerned look. "It is a very fashionable suit."

"Ah, good. It's Paris, you know."

"Yes, sir."

"People dress in some of the strangest costumes here. Always they try to outdo each other with styles that I would not be caught dead in."

"Yes, sir."

"That straw hat—the boater."

Darius gaped at him. "You don't want your Bowler?"

"No! No. I do want the Bowler, I was saying that straw hat—what imbecile thought it was stylish?"

"Yes, sir."

"For men," Nadir clarified. "Women look fine in straw hats. It isn't quite the veil, though."

"Yes, sir?"

"Silk, soft cotton, bright colors over their dark hair."

"You sound wistful, sir."

"I'm taking Mademoiselle Jardaux with me."

Darius stepped in front of his employer and checked his cravat. "Are you nervous?"

Nadir shot a bleary gaze at his mirror. "I'm old, Darius. I live in a flat on a pension that more often than not arrives a month late. My shoes have had the soles replaced. I haven't purchased a new suit in months. My prospects are grim."

Darius folded his hands before him. "You were a vital part of the Shah's security, agha-ye Khan. Is there no position in Paris for such talents?"

"Yes," Nadir grumbled. "But not for a foreigner. I still haven't got the language down."

Darius was built much like Erik. He arched a brow and looked down his slim nose at his former superior. "Perhaps your companion could coach you."

"Catherine? I shouldn't ask her. She has employment." _And I can pay little_, he admitted silently.

"But she likes to converse." Darius coughed discreetly into his palm. "And she liked the _Khoreshe Fesenjan_. There is always more than enough…cooking for two is difficult."

"Yes. I suppose it is." Nadir heard the clock strike. "I need to secure a cab. Where is my hat?"

Darius produced the Bowler with a practiced flourish that would have made Erik proud. Holding open the door he bid his master a good evening.

Nadir hopped into the first cab that stopped and sat tapping a toe as he watched out the window.


	24. Chapter 24

**24.**

Catherine Jardaux licked her finger and twisted a strand of hair around it and counted to ten. Careful not to uncoil the curl, she slipped her finger out and stood before her mirror turning her head side to side. Her hair was neatly combed back into a heavy twist. Ursule had lent her a tortoise comb adorned with a dark feather to compliment the hair.

The two women had sat in their small parlor after work and stitched a bright patterned ribbon on the dress in place of the older and darker trim. It had done to trick of turning an otherwise drab day dress into suitable attire for a dinner engagement.

In the quiet of the apartment, Catherine could hear a squealing child and a scolding parent from somewhere above her. Down the hall, the smell of Signora Gasparini's rich marinara sauce wafted like a beckoning hand.

Ursule had gone out with Clement, and the stillness of the apartment served to highlight Catherine's loneliness. Their first roommate gone, followed by Mirielle, and now Ursule and Clement appeared to be ready to marry. It left Catherine to search again for what felt like the needle in a haystack. Finding women in a similar circumstance who could be relied upon to pay their share of the rent could be daunting.

Catherine checked her hair again in the mirror and huffed as the stubborn curl hung in lank tendrils. Lips pressed together, she stifled rude words and went to secure the errant hair and its partner on the other side of her forehead in pins.

There was a knock at the door. Her heart accelerated as she took one last inventory of her dress and her hair. Allowing a dazzling smile to spread across her face she turned and went to answer the door.

Nadir stood, bowler in hand and smiled at her. "Catherine! Sorry, I'm running behind! I kept the cab downstairs so we would not be late."

Biting back a laugh, she stepped away from the door listening to Nadir's breathless words. He sped around her and snatched up her coat, holding it and trying to put his hat back upon his head. The bowler lurched to one side as he held the shoulders of the coat. She pushed her arm through the sleeve and caught the hat as it toppled.

In a jumbled of elbows, they both stepped through the door. With muttered apologies, he closed the door. Catherine stood alone in the hallway. It erupted open in a swift motion, tugging at her hair and her own hat with the force of the displaced air.

"There you are…" he said, stepping out and closing the door again. "Have I told you how lovely you look?"

They hadn't gone two steps downward before she had to save his bowler once again. With a certainty, she felt Nadir must be nervous.

~*~

Raoul de Chagny looked out of the cab window at the house. March shivered on the threshold, promising spring, but the air was still cold and damp. Wind caught at the tree branches, setting up a faint skirling as it sped through the cracks around the cab's door. Christine sat close to his side, her arm wrapped around his. He heard her gasp of delight.

"It's lovely! Oh, dear, can you believe Erik lives _there_?"

He felt himself laugh. "Never. I—I just never pictured this."

The house was, indeed, lovely. Tall and stately, with a sharply pitched roof clad in unusual blue tiles, one corner sported a gable. Bright, warm light hovered before tall windows through which he could see lace curtains. A short number of steps led to the front door, flanked by stonework. It looked tranquil and inviting on a blustery evening.

Christine leaned over his lap, looking out of the window. "It looks so ordinary." Her blue eyes caught his. She wore a bemused look, with a steadily growing smile. "It's what he always wanted. A wife, a home."

"I can't believe it, either," he replied. He got out and paid the driver while Christine held on to her hat in the gusting air. He took her arm and put himself between her and the chill breeze. "I can hardly believe any of this…."

Christine pulled him to a stop before he reached the door knocker. He turned to look at her face, afraid she might have changed her mind. She smiled softly. "Thank you, dear."

"For what?"

"For believing in me."

Raoul grasped his wife's hands. "I do, Chris. How could I not?"

She smiled up at him though her lashes. "You just don't trust Erik."

He scoffed, but covered it by clearing his throat. "He was yelling at you—he was trying to drown me!"

"You aren't still angry over that are you?"

"Chris--." He looked into her sky-blue eyes, filled with such hope and cursed his own needs. "Chis, I'm here, arent' I?"

"I know it's difficult."

She was such a loving person, he felt old and jaded next to her. He was intrigued, he would admit. Trust Erik? That remained to be seen. "Let's let them prove that leopards can change their spots."

She mouthed a silent thank you as Raoul reached for the knocker and swung it with a solid bang. In her beautiful eyes, he was once again a knight in shining armor. Dinner might not be so bad after all.

~*~

Anais crossed the hall, shooting a glance and a slight smile at her employers as she proceeded to answer the door.

Erik stood with his hands clenched behind his back. Mirielle folded her hands before her, looking serene. He knew better. She'd made three trips to check out things in the hall and the table. Her excitement was barely disguised as she had look out the front window at the dark shadow of the cab outside.

Anais announced, "The de Chagny's."

And there they stood, looking a little perplexed, hesitating at the doorway to the parlor. Christine was lovely, he cheeks pinked by the evening wind. Raoul looked dashing, the cretin! A split second went by before Mirielle advanced.

"Lovely to see you again. Thank you for coming. Won't you sit down?"

Hardly well tutored in this situation, Erik stepped back with a nod and let the ladies take up places upon the settee. Erik was not about to offer his hand unless the Vicomte did, and Raoul settled the situation by giving him a curt nod. Anais swiftly returned, asking if anyone wished a drink. Once everyone was settled, Erik turned and went to the chair near where Mirielle sat.

"What a lovely shade your dress is, Christine," his wife was saying. "Did you have any difficulty finding the house?"

Mirielle kept the two of them commenting with cheerful chatter. Erik glanced over the Vicomte's head once to look at the mantel clock. Raoul was watching him.

"We are expecting Nadir," Erik commented. "It isn't like him to be late."

"He's bringing a friend of mine," Mirielle explained.

Behind him in the house, a door closed. Erik glanced over his shoulder. "Perhaps that is him." When no one appeared in the hallway, he turned back to the room to see Fannie standing by the dining table, wearing an anxious look. Erik got to his feet. "Excuse me." He went to see what had Fannie concerned.

Mirielle asked a question, and Erik heard Raoul's voice. It sounded odd to hear that voice here in his home.

Fannie headed for the kitchen and Erik followed her. Just inside the door, Erik saw Augustin Rafinesque, who stood with his hat in his hands.

"Augustin?"

"I beg your pardon," he replied. "I was just on my way home for the evening and though I might check upon our friend in the shed."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing," the gardener supplied quickly. "But you know Madame Aulin. I think she saw me carrying the water inside."

"And this disturbs you?" Erik asked.

"She's a bit…she's worried someone is going to steal from her all the time. You know how the aged are. She might think that I was hiding something."

"You don't think she will come out on a night like this to check the shed do you?"

"I don't think she will unless she hears the goose."

Erik glanced towards the kitchen window. It was full dark outside. What were the odds the old woman would make her way through the dark just because she heard a goose? But then all those years of living at the shadowy fringes of the Opera came back to remind him that people were curious creatures. He sighed. "I suppose we could move it in here. I don't want the old woman out at night. She might stumble in the dark."

"Thank you, monsieur. Where shall I move him?"

"We could put him down in my workshop." Erik looked at Anais. "I shouldn't abandon my wife to the guests."

He no sooner entered the dining room, than a knock sounded at the door. Fannie bustled out the other kitchen door that connected with the hall. Erik circled through the dining room to the parlor door that opened upon the hall. "That would be Nadir and Mademoiselle Jardaux."

His smile wilted as he saw a child-sized creature dressed in black. Madame Aulin's brow wrinkled as she look up in Erik's direction. "Help! There is a thief in my garden!"

Fannie shot Erik a questioning glance. "I'll handle this," he told her. He stepped up to the door and bent low towards the old woman. Her eyes held the glaze of age, but her face was very smooth, capped by grey hair. "Madame, may I be of service?"

She clutched at her shawl. "There's a man in my garden shed!"

Erik heard the rustle of a skirt, deducing Mirielle must have entered the hall. A heavy footstep approached from behind him. "May I help?' Raoul asked.

Erik turned back to the woman. "Let me escort you home, Madame. I believe who you say was monsieur Rafinesque. He was working in your rose garden today, wasn't he?"

"No, this man is taller! And he has an accomplice!"

"Madame Aulin?" Mirielle brushed passed the men and took the old woman by the arm. "Why don't we just wait in the parlor before the fire? The men can take care of this for you."

"Call the gendarmes!" Madame Aulin moved with a slow tread, looking frail but graceful. Erik noted her dark dress, the jewelry she wore. She smelled faintly of violets and roses. She wore gloves on her hands.

Entering the fringes of the light from the open door, Nadir appeared with Catherine. "What's happening?"

Erik gave him a quick sketch of the old woman's dilemma. Nadir puffed up and bowed to her. "I'm at your service, Madame. I was the chief inspector while I was in the capital of Persia."

With some psychic connection that women were capable of, both Mirielle and Catherine encouraged the woman into the parlor. Erik and Nadir headed out the door, followed by a curious Raoul de Chagny. Once outside, Erik informed them of Augustin moving the goose. "I didn't think she could see that far," he commented on Madame Aulin.

"Shall we check on your gardener?" Nadir asked.

"I suppose we should make an effort. Give her time to calm her nerves," Erik replied. He led them along the side of his property to a path that bordered the fence.

Raoul de Chagny followed the Phantom and the Persian. The side of the house sported an arbor and a dormant flower garden. Stone squares were set in the turf, providing a straight path along the fence which was overgrown with shrubs on either side. At a break, he peered over and saw a man carrying a large white goose approaching from the other side. Nadir kept a hand clapped on his bowler, while Raoul helped hold the shrubs to one side as the man identified as Augustin got the goose through a tiny, almost hidden, adjoining gate.

With the wind momentarily calmed, he took the time to study the men. For the life of him, it seemed inconceivable that Erik, with his intense and tyrannical genius, could be the same individual who was talking in soothing tones to a goose. This was a glimpse of the patient, diligent teacher who had taken aside a lonely young woman and groomed her to be the toast of Paris. Raoul watched as Erik lifted a hand, soothing an errant strand of his fine hair back from the mask.

For a brief moment, an amber glow flared. Raoul felt more than saw Erik's eyes upon him. Erik glanced away as would a man passing on a street, without recognition. To be beneath the regard of the Phantom of the Opera was altogether a relief.

Rounding the front of the house, Fannie waited her face close to the glass that outlined one side of the front of the door. She took Nadir's bowler as he entered and curtsied.

One small tempest tamed, they rejoined the ladies in the parlor.


	25. Chapter 25

**25.**

Raoul de Chagny followed the men back into the parlor. The little maid they called Fannie still looked flummoxed over the events. She spun smartly on her heels and fled in the direction that must be the kitchen.

In the Phantom's chair sat the diminutive figure of the neighbor woman. She sipped from a glass, her other hand clasping a lace edged handkerchief to her bosom. From the bubbles and the golden color, Raoul assessed the Vachon's were serving a champagne aperitif. The little maid appeared at the edge of the dining room with a tray and three glasses. Raoul took his glass and glanced down at his wife. Christine smiled up at him and raised hers in a private toast.

Madame Aulin peered up at the Phantom. "You are very pale. Is it dreadfully cold outside?"

Christine, who just raised her glass to her lips, dropped it, coughing behind her hand. He set a hand on her back, but she appeared to need no assistance. Everyone else took a sip of their aperitif, glancing at one another.

The Phantom regarded the woman. "It's never too cold to come to the service of a neighbor."

From where he stood, Raoul believed the entire room let out a breath. Previously blank faces warmed with small smiles.

"Oh!" Madame Aulin groaned. "Villainy. Skulduggery. Crime is rampant in Paris."

"Do you have family here?" Mirielle asked.

"Yes, but one son is in Britain and my daughter has moved south."

"The south of France?"

"No. She's three streets away." Madame Aulin leaned forward a little as she brought her glass to her lips.

The Persian asked, "Will you be all right if we escort you home?"

"Hmm? Yes. I'm fine. I was in my parlor reading when I saw the thief." She glanced down. "Where is my cane?"

The guests began looking around the woman's chair, but the Persian told her, "You did not have one with you, Madame."

"I didn't?"

"No. I'm sure of it."

"I was so frightened, I must have forgotten it."

Raoul noticed the Phantom looking down at his wife. As if he was capable of reading her thoughts, he cocked his head. A significant look passed between them.

"Madame," Mirielle began, "you are most welcome to sit and dine with us. We wouldn't want to hurry you home if those intruders might still be around."

Madame Aulin smiled, her little puckered face looking deceptively cherubic. "I don't want to impose…."

"Nonsense," Mirielle insisted. "We are just having a quiet little get together-."

From the kitchen came a loud _honk_.

"Bless you," Catherine said with a smirk. Mirielle's face took on a soft pink flush.

"Are you ill, dear?" The old woman adopted a concerned face.

"It's nothing," Mirielle replied. As Madame Aulin lifted her glass, the Phantom's wife stuck her tongue out at her friend. Christine covered a soft laugh.

"I'll let Anais know to set an extra plate." The Phantom headed for the kitchen with what looked like humor dancing in his strange eyes.

After his tall form disappeared, the little maid came out with a service and a plate.

Madame Aulin smiled sadly. "Maybe you contracted it from your husband. An illness, I say. He is dreadfully pale."

A piece of cutlery rattled against the plate the maid had placed on the table. Fannie was biting her lip as she stared down. Catherine and the Persian both wore outrageous grins, while Christine swirled her glass and took a larger than average tipple. Raoul was about to have a sip when the honk sounded again.

Christine glanced up at him, her pale brows arched. Raoul was leaning down to share the secret of the thief when the same creature popped through the dining room door.

Christine jumped up out of her seat. "A goose!"

Fannie dropped the last of the cutlery and gathered her skirts to step away from the table. The bird stood between her and the kitchen door which opened suddenly, framing the Phantom. He murmured, "We aren't taking on any more guests," as he reached for the bird.

The goose wasn't looking at the man, he had his eyes trained on the table. The Phantom swooped down on the bird and bore it upwards and through the door swiftly.

Christine stood cradling her glass. "A goose?"

"We're having goose?" Madame Aulin asked.

"Veal, actually." Mirielle replied.

Anais came from the kitchen, bearing a tray. "Canapé?" The Persian waited until Catherine selected one and helped himself. Christine resumed her seat as the maid approached. Raoul selected one and was surprised as the flavorful crab and lemon mixture.

The younger maid pushed open the kitchen door as if she expected something to leap through it. Looking inside, she slid silently out of the room and let the door close.

Raoul could hardly blame her for exercising caution in this household.

Erik and Gus herded the goose towards the back door. Fannie stood with her hand on the knob, ready to open it. Erik told Gus, "We'll keep Madame Aulin here."

"Good. I'll get the goose settled." Gus jammed his hat back on his head and picked up the goose.

Erik turned back towards the dining room as Gus went out the door. Fannie went to the door and peered out of the glass into the dark.

Raoul didn't try to hide his curiosity as he watched the oh so subtle interplay between the returning Phantom and Mirielle. Being a married man himself, he managed to communicate with Christine though familiarity. The Phantom's metamorphosis from anti-social madman to the hero of the opera and husband in such short order still made little sense. What strange forces must have interceded to bring this about?

Unless one believed in fairy stories, the weight of the man's years in hiding should have stripped him of the last of his humanity, twisted as it already was. But here he stood, patiently listening to the chatter in the room. His golden gaze roamed faces, even Christine's, but would return to his own wife's. His long fingers, that once held a malevolent, skeletal look, were gently griping the stem of his glass.

"Madame de Chagny was born in Sweden," the Persian informed the woman who was introduced to them as Mademoiselle Jardaux. She had insisted they call her Catherine.

"Do you have family here?" Catherine asked.

Christine shook her head. "My mother died when I was young. My Father passed on later."

"He was a violinist," Raoul added. "I remember him playing during the summer when my family went to Breton. It is where my wife and I met."

"What brought you to Paris?" Mirielle asked.

"I promised to attend the Conservatory," Christine replied. "I was employed by the opera…." Her voice trailed away.

Mirielle broke the ensuing silence. "And you will be the toast of Paris again."

"Here, here." Nadir raised his glass in a salute.

Christine dropped her right hand to her skirt. Sliding her fingers through the folds, Raoul reached to grasp them with a gentle squeeze. She glanced down, her dark lashes covering her sky-blue eyes. "I have the benefit of a good teacher."

"Nonsense," the Phantom said amiably. "Your career will hinge on your performance. As it should."

Christine appeared to add more, but he turned his visage towards the arriving maid who announced, "Dinner is served."

Raoul helped his wife to her feet. She smiled briefly and let him escort her to the table.

As the group gathered around the place settings, The Phantom took a place behind one of the tall arm chairs at one end. Mirielle swept to the opposite end and stood waiting. Nadir and Catherine had been placed along the opposite side from what Raoul presumed would be his and Christine's chairs. Nadir and Catherine milled beside theirs. Madame Aulin had been wedged in between.

Not so much as a look past between Nadir and Catherine, but Mirielle looked down the expanse of the table at her husband. The Phantom's eyes were illuminated with a vibrant brassy hue as he looked at his wife. Raoul guided Christine to their chairs and noticed her place card was directly to the Phantom's left, while his own was to Mirielle's right hand.

"I'm sorry," the Phantom said to Christine. "My left hand is dominant. I believe we shall be locking elbows all evening."

Raoul de Chagny knew as surely as the sun rose in the east that the nefarious criminal mastermind who occupied the head of the table was ambidextrous. He had witnessed it himself. He shot a glance at Nadir who seemed just as perplexed.

"I'm sorry darling," Mirielle replied. "Would Madame de Chagny prefer another chair?"

"I—I can switch with my husband."

"Catherine is left handed," the Phantom replied.

"Oh." Mirielle said softly with a lift of one dark brow.

"I 'd be glad to exchange places," Catherine piped in.

She stood back and moved towards the head of the table next to the Phantom. "But that places you bumping elbows with the Viscount," he observed.

"I'll switch places," volunteered Nadir. He and Catherine swiftly circumvented the chairs and the de Chagny's.

Raoul stepped aside. If they switched places, he and Christine would be bracketing the neighbor woman. And worse, Christine would still be in the chair closes to the Phantom. Deciding to alter the arrangement further, Raoul headed for the chair next to Erik Vachon.

The Phantom gifted him with a sickly smile that flashed so quickly, it was not unreasonable to doubt its sincerity. He toothily granted the Phantom one of his own.

Christine stood waiting for him to push in her chair. As Raoul stepped back to grasp it for her, the Phantom spoke up.

"Madame Aulin? Would you care to sit closer to the fire place?"

The little woman peered towards the mantel. "It would be warm, thank you." Raoul pulled her chair back for her. "These old bones do require a bracing fire," the older woman gushed.

The Phantom swept the other chair back and seated his neighbor. Raoul swiftly seated his wife next to Mirielle, and they all settled back in their chairs with a collective sigh.

As the first course came, a light, creamy Zucchini soup with a sprinkle of cheese on the top, accompanied by a Sauvignon, Raoul noticed Catherine and Nadir had no difficulties with dueling elbows during the service.


	26. Chapter 26

**26.**

Madame Aulin commented on the soup and the canapés and how fine the table looked. She was the most talkative member of the group. Erik's wife, Mirielle, asked polite questions. Even to Raoul de Chagny's practiced social skills, the dinner ,while very tasteful, was kept sterile of conversation.

It was, however, to his great relief, quite relaxing even when Erik's voice broke through the silence.

Raoul noticed his wife's at first awkward movements grew more casual. The wine was excellent and lulled by the gentle hum of Madame Aulin's stories and the clink of glassware, the dinner began in discomfited spurts and smoothed to a relaxed pace. The maids appeared as servants did, at precisely the moment a glass was to be refilled or a plate whisked away. The veal was superb, the bread fresh, hot, and crusty, the butter chilled, the vegetables cooked to perfection.

It was as the stunning maid went back into the kitchen that the goose arrived again. This time he paused between Nadir and Catherine causing the lady give a startled whoop. Both of the hosts stiffened, but relaxed as they saw the origin of the surprise.

Christine laughed. "He looks like M. Olivier, the stage manager. Do you remember him?" She glanced at Erik.

"Ah. That poor harried fellow. If he hadn't attempted to rush fate, the show would have gone on just as smoothly," Erik commented.

Mirielle grinned. "We have been remiss in the number of chairs provided for the evening. He seems quit intent on sharing the table."

Nadir adopted a mocking scowl. "See here, fellow. Find your own dinner companion."

Raoul watched his wife smile delightfully. She was so happy. The worry of the last month began to melt from his own shoulders as he listened to her giggle behind her napkin at the antics of the maids and a man who was quickly introduced as Gus hustle the protesting creature back into the kitchen.

"You should give him a name," Christine blurted. Then shot a guilty glance towards Madame Vachon.

Their hosts looked at each other a moment and nodded agreement. Erik raised his glass. "Olivier it is."

"Oh," Christine's voice waived only a trifle, but Raoul recognized his wife's rising embarrassment. "I didn't mean—"

"It's a wonderful name, Christine." Mirielle pronounced.

Christine looked down at her plate. Raoul sought her fingers below the table cloth. They could not know the events that had caused this sudden horror for her. Damn his aunts and their toplofty mores. His poor, sweet young wife had wilted under their sharp barbs at innumerable instances before Raoul called a halt to their visit and left claiming he had to be in port early.

Madame Aulin asked, "Why do you have a goose?"

"I believe he adopted us," Erik replied smoothly. "Augustin found him by the river. We believe he's lame."

"Ah! My gardener!" she exploded. "My gardener is lame?"

"No, Madame," Erik replied with a chuckle. "I'm sorry. Not your gardener, but the goose."

She sat back with a comforted sigh. "He is ever so good with rose bushes. I'd hate for him to be ill."

The maids brought out coffee and an Orange cake for the dessert.

Erik asked, "We were wondering if we could house Olivier, the goose, in your shed for a few days until we get him settled."

"My shed? That would be a splendid idea. M. Rafinesque could keep an eye on him now that those criminals are prowling the streets. Horror! I tell you. When decent citizens of Paris must be subjected to this crime."

"We shall be glad to keep an eye upon your property Madame," Erik reassured her.

She took a delicate sip of her coffee. "Thank you so much. I'm a widow, you know." She glanced up shyly and spoke. "I was born during the First Empire under Napoleon's rule. My father, an army man, froze in Russia in 1813. I've lived through the July Monarchy, the next Revolution, the Second republic and now the Second Empire. Along with the Communards taking control and Baron Haussmann tearing up the streets of Paris, I wonder if I shall live to see peace in my country. My husband died of ague while working on the Suez Canal. I took my only trip to Egypt to recover his body. My brother was tortured to death by Algerians. Despite a tradition of military service, my children chose occupations that kept them in offices." She paused and raised her cup. "I am thankful for that. I do not wish to lose anyone else."

Nadir broke the thoughtful silence that had descended. "What an amazing tale, Madame."

"How remarkable," Catherine agreed. "I hadn't thought that people were alive who remembered all those years."

Madame Aulin nodded. "You remember the years by deaths. But you remember the ones you loved by their lives."  
Silence settled around the table like a soft lace curtain. Raoul could recall his parents and Christine's father with his violin. God alone knew what everyone else around the table was remembering, but there seemed a mixture of sadness and contentment around them. The warmth in the house increased.

"Have you been to Egypt," Madame Aulin asked, looking down the table at Mirielle. "I see the last of henna upon your hands."

Mirielle gave a small gasp of pleased surprise. "It was for our wedding."

"It was my pleasure to give it to my friend as a gift," Nadir informed them. "It is a custom for brides in my country."

"Then you are recently wed? Congratulations," Madame Aulin added.

"Yes, we were," Erik replied. He glanced about the table. "If everyone is finished, we should open a bottle of champagne. I shall regale you with tales of my wife's most scandalous behavior in the cellars of Remes."

"Oh, Erik!" Mirielle protested, putting her palm to her cheek.

Catherine chortled. She shot a glance at Nadir winked in time to intercept a wink. They were momentarily frozen in their astonishment, but both burst out in laughter.

Raoul felt his own smile grow. Christine looked shyly towards Mirielle, but her smile turned brilliant as the older woman smirked at her.

"Husbands…." Mirielle muttered.

Erik laughed heartily.

"Excuse me," Madame Aulin said. "I should let you young people enjoy your evening." She began to stand and Erik leaped to his feet and pulled her chair out for her. She offered a hand. "Dinner was delightful. Thank you for taking in a neighbor."

"Nonsense," Mirielle protested. "It was our pleasure to have you sit with us."

"Thank you, dear. I' shall just need someone to walk me to my door."

"It would be my pleasure," Erik answered, offering his arm.

Raoul watched the spectacle of the tall, imposing figure and the slight, willowy, delicate older woman progress at a stately pace out of the door.

"What an interesting woman," Mirielle remarked. "We shall have to invite her over again. That is if I can get Erik to stop playing the harmonium long enough to eat at a respectable hour."

"He still does that?" Christine asked.

"Yes. Since moving into this house he has adapted to the idea of civilized hours. But he does like to tinker with things and gets lost in thought."

Raoul leaned towards her. "This is most remarkable."

She smiled the sort of mysterious smile that da Vinci must have copied in his Mona Lisa. It implied a wisdom beyond time or experience. "I think everyone is remarkable in their own way." She lifted a hand. "Look at the people we have in this room."

Raoul shook his head. "I don't disagree but I should add that you are remarkable."

She lounged back in her chair. "Why M. de Chagny, you turn a lady's head."

Raoul thought he might have committed a gaff until Mirielle smiled again at Christine who nudged him in the ribs.

"I'll tell Anais to open a bottle for us. Why don't we move to the parlor?" With that Mirielle made to push back and Nadir assisted her, pulling out her chair and then moving to help Catherine. Raoul led Christine to the parlor. She squeezed his fingers briefly. All was forgiven in her teasing smile.

Erik walked slowly, allowing Madame Aulin to set the pace as they transverse from the door to the walk.

"Thank you for inviting me in," she said.

"It was our pleasure, Madame. You should come once again. Mirielle loves company."

The older woman laughed. "Men never do. They just want to eat and retire to smoke or play cards."

"I don't mind as long as I'm fed. Our maid is quite an accomplished cook. And she is good company for my wife." He walked a few paces before he asked, "You said your husband died in Egypt."

"I—I embellished that tale. He did die in Egypt," she hastily added. "But the fever was a result of a wound from a Bedouin attack. The British wanted control of the canal. They criticized France for using forced labor and claimed the Egyptians were treated as slaves."

"I remember. I also remember Britain held no qualms for forcing citizens to labor on the railroad in Egypt."

"Yes. A few protests in a newspaper and men died. I would not dare to say that the peasants forced to work were treated better than slaves. But Egypt is a desperately poor country."

"Yes, rich in history, but enduring poverty in the wars for supremacy." He paused. "You know your politics, Madame."

"Yes. When you are my age, there is little to occupy your days except grandchildren and reading the news."

Erik could hear the note of pleasure from his praise. "Then we shall most assuredly have you to dinner. I do enjoy a stimulating discussion."

She laughed softly. "Thank you for walking me home. I haven't said that in, oh, decades!"

"My pleasure." He bid her good evening and watched outside her door until she was inside and the gas lamps flared. Walking back to his home he wondered how long it would be before she put together his identity. She had appeared short sighted when she remarked upon his pale face, but had no problem picking up the faint red stains left by the henna on Mirielle's hands.

He picked up his pace and grinned. Who would believe such a delicate little woman could be so devious. He now doubted her asserting she saw criminals. She had looked dressed for dinner, with small earrings and a necklace. He would have a fine time telling Mirielle all of this.


	27. Chapter 27

**27.**

Erik slid his hands behind his back and walked along the length of the rose bushes until they left off at the corner of his property. For a moment, he let his gaze drink in the mellow light from the parlor of his home and the shifting shapes of the trees in the night. While it was enchanting, it was still damp and cold and the people he wished to be with were awaiting him.

How refreshing it was, to be expected because someone was looking forward to being with you. Mirielle wanted his company and Anais always had a smile for him. Nadir, despite being busy in his own community of expatriates, managed to conjure an excuse to come by and chat.

His steps quickened as he leaped up onto the stoop and pushed open the door. Taking a moment, he smoothed down his jacket and lifted two fingers to the bottom of his mask. Everything in place, he sauntered to his parlor.

Mirielle was smiling and nodding at the Viscount. Christine sat very close to her husband, her delicate hand captured in his larger one. Catherine and Nadir had taken up chairs that were companionably close. His own chair sat beside the fireplace, awaiting him like an overlarge and embroidered pet. It only needed a lolling tongue and a thumping tale to complete the picture.

Erik hesitated at the door. After years of watching from behind the scenes, walking between and in front of people was still unusual. People before him, he could see. As he passed them, he lost sight of them and found his brain still struggled to not make him whip his head side to side to see what they were up to. He winced behind his mask as the folly of the feeling. He was a grown man, for the love of heaven! A married man, a teacher, an artist! He looked down at Catherine who slid a hand to her skirt. "Excuse me," he said automatically. His mother would be proud.

Catherine smiled up at him. "What a charming little woman. It was kind of you to invite her for dinner."

Erik took his seat. "We seem to be attracting all sorts of strays of late." Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pall draw over the Vicomte's features. To forestall ill feelings he added, "One neighbor and one goose!"

"Don't forget the gardener," Nadir suggested.

"M. Rafinesque. He seems a good sort. He was the one who found Olivier."

"Was the goose walking the streets?" Christine asked.

"No. The back of the property faces the river," Erik replied. Before he could add another word, she stood swiftly. In response, the men leaped up from their chairs as was fitting.

Christine folded her hands together. A brittle and too bright smile lit her features. "Madame Vachon, would you care to show me the river?"

There was a moment of startled silence among the group. Mirielle smiled and began to rise. Erik automatically offered her a hand.

"That would be a splendid idea." Mirielle turned towards the dining room.

Erik watched the Vicomte, who looked as startled as everyone else. "I'll get your wrap," he offered.

"No need," Christine replied, waving him off. "We shall just take a quick look."

Something passed between the young couple, Erik noted. It might have been a slight tilt of the head, or a searching look. Whatever it was, it disappeared as swiftly as sunlight covered by windblown clouds. Raoul remained standing until the ladies passed out of view. Erik and Nadir took their seats at the same time.

Catherine looked at all three of the men. "Do you think I should, er, go with them?"

Nadir patted her hand. "Give them a few minutes."

"What for?" Raoul asked.

Nadir shrugged. "I don't know. But it is better that Christine has her chance to bare her breast."

Catherine's brows shot upwards. "I believe you mean make a clean breast of things."

"Is that the way you say it?"

"Yes," Catherine supplied. "But that would infer that she has committed something that she is guilty of and that she is repenting."

"Is she?"

"I can't think of what it would be," Erik replied. He turned to look at Raoul de Chagny. "Perhaps you and I should go see how Olivier is doing."

Raoul leveled an intent look upon him. "Yes. We should." His lips barely moved as he spoke. He stood and straightened his vest, and then bowed with the ease of long practice to Catherine and Nadir. "Excuse us," he said to them with an air of graciousness that must come along with his pedigree.

Nadir and Catherine watched the men head for the front door. In the ensuing silence they looked at one another.

"Do you think I should go with them?" Nadir asked with a nod in the direction of the door.

Catherine considered for a moment and then pointed towards his vest with its watch and fob. "Let's give them five minutes. I'll check on the ladies."

Nadir sighed. "And I'll make sure Erik doesn't lead Raoul down a path."

They sat back and looked around the room. Catherine sighed. "It has been an interesting evening."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I am," she replied. "Are you?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. "I thought they seemed a little subdued." He pointed towards the empty chairs.

"What did you expect?" Head tilted and displaying a faint smile, Catherine looked interested in his opinion.

"Well, if you expect the worst, you can be glad it doesn't play out. I couldn't predict how the evening would go."

They glanced around again, and settled, looking at one another. "Has it been five minutes?"

Nadir held out his watch for her to inspect. "Only three."

"That gives us two minutes," she replied softly.

Nadir's heart accelerated. "You, ah, noticed Erik arranged us together at the table."

"Was that what that was?"

He smirked at her. "It was no accident."

She studied his face, and then leaned forward. "Do you think they left us alone now on purpose?"

Opening his mouth to respond, Nadir felt his eyebrows climb as his thoughts ricocheted in his brain. "I don't think so. I believe something is bothering Christine, which is why I invited everyone to dinner—"

"You invited?"

"Yes, at her last lesson. I thought Erik might get to the bottom of it."

Catherine leaned in her chair, an elbow on the wooden arm and her chin resting in her palm. "But now Christine walks out with Mirielle, and Erik and Raoul take off into the night in the opposite direction?"

Nadir smiled slyly. "I doubt it. If I know Erik, and I do, I would not place it beyond him to engage Raoul in a little spying."

Catherine grinned. "Somehow I do not think Raoul would engage in that. I can imagine the portraits of his ancestors changing to startled faces over such a rude thing."

Nadir sat forward, his own elbows on his knees and his hands joined. "His ancestors wouldn't be expecting the likes of Erik to darken their window."

"Door."

Nadir looked towards the hall. "Someone is at the door?"

Catherine chuckled. "No, Nadir. The phrase is to not darken someone's door."

"Ah. What did I say?"

"You said window."

He relaxed back in the chair and stroked his mustache with a fingertip. "I knew that one! I'm just a bit befuddled this evening."

"I should say you are," she confirmed with a gentle smile. "You opened my door, put me in the hall, then stepped inside my apartment and shut me out."

He cleared his throat and glanced sternly at his watch. "It's been five minutes."

"Are you nervous?"

"No," he shook his head. "I can find Erik and Raoul—"

"Not about that. I meant are you nervous being alone with me?" She'd reach out to lay her fingertips upon his sleeve.

Nadir studied her giving himself time to consider his answer. "I have not been with another woman since the death of my wife. I must say I find you attractive, Catherine. You are a charming companion." He halted, amazed at how difficult it was to say these things to her. He wasn't a blushing lad without experience with women. Why did this come so hard?

They gazed at one another. He struggled to form words that wouldn't sound pretentious or overly familiar. Her eyes danced with humor and she lifted a hand to her hair. She coughed delicately behind her hand. "I should go out….."

Nadir surged to his feet and offered her his hand, which she grasped gently. He felt his heartbeat pulsing in his fingertips against her soft skin and wondered if she detected it too. He stood where he was, feeling the hem of her dress brush the toes of his shoes. Looking down at her, he noticed the soft curve of her smile and the darkness of her lashes as they brushed her cheeks. It was a coy mask and she wore it well.

Catherine looked up. As one they leaned closer. Her hand rested upon his lapel and one of his stole slowly to grasp her elbow. Their lips brushed softly, hesitated, and then regrettably withdrew.

Fannie had come to take the tablecloth away. Seeing the couple in the parlor, she pirouetted upon her toes and slipped back into the kitchen.

Mirielle went to the back door and opened it. "I think if we take a candle we will have enough light." She paused to ask Anais if there was a lantern or a candle available. Fanny hurried over with a small oil lamp. Taking it from the girl, Mirielle stepped out and began the walk towards the river.

"Careful of your footsteps here," she pointed out as they walked. As they approached the canopy of the trees, she felt the other woman's hand upon her arm.

In the dark, Christine's face had lost its coloring. She appeared a shade of her former self and it tugged at Mirielle's heart.

"We don't need to go farther," Christine said. "I wanted to speak to you."

Standing under the soughing branches and the faint voice of the leaves over their heads, Mirielle waited. "Yes?"

"I apologize if this is too personal."

Mirielle grinned. "We won't know until you ask, dear. Go on."

Christine's features altered, looking stricken. "How do you let go?"

Mirielle's own heart twisted inside her breast. "Oh child, that is what you were asking Erik, wasn't it? How did he let go of you?" Seeing the mounting distress on the other woman's face, Mirielle took hold of her hand. "Life doesn't give us choice. You have already experienced this with your own father. What worries you?"

Christine's lips trembled. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Raoul's ship is to explore the North Pole." She paused and scrubbed a hand at her cheek. "I know it's silly. It's just childish nonsense." Her delicate face looked a decade older. "But I can't help thinking that something terrible will befall him."

Mirielle doubled her grip on the girl's hand and pulled her closer. "It isn't silly. It's frightening. It isn't fair to the newly married or even us older folk. Losing the person you love is inevitable. Parents pass on. If you are truly unfortunate you will bury your children. It is a terrible thing, but it is a part of living. All you can hope for is the next day and the next."

Christine shivered. "I feel so helpless."

"You will. And you will feel angry and hurt. It is part of the process of saying goodbye to someone. What holds the bad feelings at bay is to start believing that he will come back to you safely. Pray for it, plan on it, find the well of strength inside you that tells you life is like a river." She pointed out into the dark with the lamp. "There is a river over there. None of us can stop it. Life has a path to take. You can hope for the best in this lifetime or a rejoining in heaven. But you mustn't let hope slip away from you."

Christine shook her head. "I am hoping. We have this silly routine, Raoul and I. When I cross a bridge he gives me coins and I toss them to the trolls."

"Trolls live under bridges?"

"In the cities they do," she assured Mirielle. "I think that if I keep them happy they will leave my husband alone." She glanced out into the darkness. "You haven't seen the night that lasts for months. You haven't heard the shepherds calling the flocks. My people have this high yodeling that sounds, well, it sounds like a lost soul calling. Not terrified, but lost. It echoes out over the snow. I can remember it gave me goose bumps and I used to hide. But there is no place out on the ice fields to hide."

Memories of the sun glinting off of fields of snow came to Mirielle's mind. She'd seen illustrations of the high mountains and forests in Scandinavia. Christine's parents must have cautioned her, like all parents are like to do, by warning her with stories of being snatched up. It was hard to make the young understand a misstep could cost them their lives. Or the pretty snow could grip them and suck the warmth from their bodies. "You believe this supernatural agent will claim Raoul?"

"Yes. I think that they wait out there in the long dark. Trolls have long claws and dim little piggish eyes under long hair. I can't say they really exist. But I can say that there is great danger if the ship becomes locked in the ice. For all of the building and the planning the trip, the ocean and the ice will be victorious." Christine sniffed. "It's so cold in the darkness."

Almost at a loss for what reassurance she could give the girl, she heard the echoing despair in Christine's final words. The young woman would understand. She'd been brought down into the cool cellars and the eternal darkness that Erik had lived in. She had endured the loss of her parents and the years of study and then her appearance on the stage. She was not unprepared for life. Mirielle believed the girl only wanted to share her fears in hope that it would ease them.

"I must tell you something," Mirielle said in a hushed voice, looking out into the dark around them. "And we must be quick." She tugged at Christine's arm.

Christine took a hesitant step. "Madame?"

"Call me Mirielle," she insisted. "We should go see the river!"

"What?"

Mirielle spoke in a low whisper. "I have a secret to tell you."

They hurried under the trees and along the little path with Mirielle pointing out the places to watch for the roots and the rocks. Stopping as the branches opened onto the river, the older woman heard Christine's soft 'ah' as the sight of the lights glinting on the surface of the Seine.

"Listen. You asked Erik for help, and he has set upon a plan. He believes his maid will help him with a Vodou ritual—"

"Vodou-"

"Hush, dear," Mirielle warned, looking back into the dark. "Trust me. I'll make sure it is the ritual you wish. What do you wish for?"

Christine looked directly into her eyes. "I want my husband safe."

Mirielle nodded. "It's as good as done. No matter what the men think, I shall talk to Anais and be sure that she knows what _you_ wish."

"What—what does Erik think I want?"

"He thinks you are worried over your voice."

Christine's brows arched, lending her an incredulous look. She whispered, "I'm just nervous, that's all."

"I know that," Mirielle assured her. "But do you think you could explain it to a man?"

Christine looked back over her shoulder. Compressing her lips, she shook her head. "When is this supposed to happen?"

"I don't know yet. I shall get the information from Nadir and send you a note at the hotel." She looked out over the river. "We should get back to the house."

They turned as one. "Do you think he's listening?"

Mirielle shot her a sly grin. "He might try. Old habits die hard."


	28. Chapter 28

**28.**

Raoul de Chagny hesitated in the hall. His hat was hung from the hall tree, but recalling the gusting breeze as he and Christine exited the cab, he decided to leave it behind. He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the stoop. Closing the door, he allowed time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the outdoors. He went to the steps and glanced to his right.

"Over here." Erik's shirt and white mask were like hovering, disembodied specters in the faint light from the house windows.

Raoul walked to join him. "Are we going to check on the ladies?"

"In a sense." Erik's mask flashed white in the darkness as he looked about him. He led Raoul down a path between what looked like ground broken up in preparation for flowers. It was difficult to picture the Phantom and his wife sitting in the sunlight between sweeping rafts of blooms. They passed a primitive looking bench. Its shape was not perfectly rectangular which lent it a carefree air.

"Nature abhors straight lines," Erik said. Raoul started at how close Erik's words brushed his very own musings. "Gus pulled that stone from the banks of the river. I find it a homage to the perfection nature can attain while man strives to force it within geometrical boundaries.

"I have faith that my wife can find her way to the river and back. What concerns me is the subject which must be niggling at you as well."

They paused, facing one another about three paces apart, not close enough to be friends, but more than enough for confederates. "Go on," Raoul prompted.

"Something worries Christine. I sense that she is looking for something. How concerned are you that she has not recovered her singing voice?"

"I am not concerned over it. I only worry over her."

Erik paused, his normally startling eyes were dark centers in the mask's eye holes. "You see she is struggling as well?"

Raoul was prepared to argue, his ire rising, at the inference that he would push away Christine's feelings about anything. But he clamped his lips shut, and exhaled his anger. The man he faced would understand more than anyone how desperately he wanted to protect his wife. Rather than give word to the obvious, he turned the conversation. "It hasn't been easy for her. She left friends, her home, the opera….."

The Phantom stood a darker spot in the moving dark lines of rustling shrubs. Raoul took his patient stance as a prompt. "My aunts were less than happy about my decision. We left after only a month with them. I went to the bank and withdrew what I could of my stipend from the funds my family provides. I did it on the pretence that Christine wished to see her homeland before I sailed. We visited Madame Valarius. I intended to take Christine to the port and wait until I sailed. I had hoped to get her settled with Madame Valarius' help. If I could get her someplace where she was comfortable and surrounded by friends, she might be happier."

Erik's head turned a little. The movement might have been lost except for the changing position of the mask drawing Raoul's eyes to the pale surface. "You didn't make it to port?"

"We saw the newspaper. Chris has been adamant to read that section every day. I buy her paper every morning."

"Did you intend to bring her back?"

"I promised her I would." He paused to picture her on the train, the sun coming in the window turning her hair to a halo of pale gold, her eyes as blue as the sky. "She began to weep. I knew what she had seen. We just couldn't believe it. We had been reading of the woman who interrupted the performance at the opera. It had occurred scant days before, and then, here was Chris reading of your death."

That set the Phantom in motion. He half turned, the mask turning side to side like a pendulum. "I'd forgotten that. Mirielle must have sent the message to the paper beforehand to bring you back. What abominably bad timing." He began walking towards the back of the house.

Raoul followed, lifting his steps just enough to be sure he wouldn't trip over anything in the darkness. He spoke a little louder to catch Erik's attention. "The papers said a mysterious man appeared upon the stage. That he disarmed the woman before she did any harm."

Erik's dark figure turned. "I did nothing but appear when she least expected it. She shot herself. She must have known by then that the gas mains had not been breached. It was over for her."

Raoul winced. The opulent beauty of the opera with its rufescent curtains, velvet seats, and gilded appointments had been spoiled by an almost unspeakable scene. "Thank God Chris was not upon the stage that night."

"Indeed. It was the night I knew I could no longer live below the opera. I wanted my wife safe, protected from any such fanatical nonsense." He growled, "Madame Aulin has it right. This country doesn't know when to give up fighting."

"It is the times that we live in," Raoul answered."How—how did you meet your wife?"

The Phantom returned in a ghostly chuckle that seemed to travel around and behind Raoul. "You mean how does a madman like me become a respectable married man?"

Deciding to be frank, Raoul replied, "Yes."

Erik's sigh was pronounced enough that Raoul could hear it over the sound of the canopy of tree branches overhead whispering. "You run out of strength. You run out of patience. You grow tired of being the lion among the lambs. A man can only stride against the current for so long."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning time weighs heavy upon you. Regrets are the worst thing a man can carry to his grave." He brushed a pale hand down his jacket. His next words were almost carried away by a gust. "Nadir sent me to a matchmaker."

After arriving at the underground house and finding a living man, Raoul had believed he would never be again so surprised in his life. He should have known that dealing with Erik would render him befuddled once again. Surprise turned to laughter that he could not restrain.

Erik did not mask the disgusted tsking noise he made as he turned away.

"You—you w-went-t to a—"

"Yes, yes! Humorous isn't it? I'm human after all!"

Raoul cleared his throat. "Sorry. That's just…astounding."

"I thought so as well. Not that I didn't suffer from fainting women. It took a while to find Mirielle. She's too polite to scream. And she was a little curious I think."

Raoul shook his head in wonder.

Erik's voice turned low. "Amazing isn't it? I talked to her. That's all. Oh, she does love opera. That was my stipulation, of course. Shall I shock you further?"

His voice sounded gleeful, and Raoul studied his masked face, the shadowed cheeks, the golden eyes.

"I'm a grandfather."

Raoul was still reeling from the possibilities that faced this man when Erik continued. "I remember Christine set great store upon her beliefs. Does she still?"

Arrested by the sudden change in Erik's voice, Raoul responded. "She does."

"I have a proposition for you."

"Go on."

"My maid Anais is from the Caribbean. I have found that she has been raised in the culture we call Voodoo. I wish to try something with Christine. A ritual of sorts."

On guard when his wife's name was mentioned, Raoul put out a hand. "What sort of ritual?"

"Christine sets great store in the supernatural. Why not give her a ritual to bring back her voice?"

"What does it entail?"

"Fannie's mother has a shop from which she deals herbs. She appears to be some sort of expert at cleansing and other rituals. I'm to meet with her and find out what would be appropriate to the situation."

Raoul studied the older man. "If I had heard this from anyone else, I might have scoffed."

Erik waited, head cocked, his eyes now a faint golden spark within the mask. "It is a leap of faith, I know. But would you trust Christine's welfare to anyone else?"

The answer was painfully simple. "No. I do trust that you would always care for her. If you didn't, you would not have sent her away that night." Thoughts of the future brushed aside the memories of the past. "I must insist that I go with you."

* * *

Nadir gazed into Catherine's eyes, believing they must mirror his own. A gentle surprise followed by warmth settled inside him. "I apologize if I misread—"

"You didn't," she said softly. "I like you, too."

* * *

Erik's taller frame appeared to grow even straighter. The amber eyes now lit with a fire that Raoul believed might have given off heat. "Impossible. I move quickly when unencumbered."

"Be that as it may, I will not agree to this charade if I do not attend."

Erik did something Raoul had never witnessed before. He harrumphed and then shook his head while crossing his arms over his chest. "No. Not possible."

"What?" Raoul challenged. "That we agree to work together or that you are impossible."

Erik straightened, and Raoul's gaze shot straight to the telltale white of the cuffs of Erik's jacket. He tensed, ready to rear back if one of those damned cat-gut loops appeared in Erik's slim fingers.

The Phantom snorted. "Now I'm impossible?" He half turned and shook his head. When he spoke his voice was laced with humor. It made the hair on Raoul's neck crawl. "Anything is possible. Nothing is certain. Only truth and when has a man ever failed to stumble over that and claim it was just a loose board?"

The younger man waited, watching the elder with the intensity of a hound running a rabbit to its warren. When it was clear to him that Erik was not going to allow his participation, he played the only remaining hand that fate had somehow dealt him. "Would you trust me to do this for your wife without you knowing?"

"Now who is absurd?" Erik said nothing else, only turned smartly upon a heel and headed for the back of the house. Raoul followed swiftly, keeping an eye on the unfamiliar terrain. Erik stopped abruptly and glance over his shoulder. "I'll send word to the hotel through Nadir."

"Room 211."

With a curt nod, the Phantom stepped out into the breeze behind the corner of the house. He took a few steps and lifted an arm. "There you are, ladies. We thought the wind might have blown you away."

Raoul joined the group, walking a wide path around Erik to come to Christine's side. Her cold hand slid into his warmer, larger one. "You are chill," he whispered to her.

"I'm fine," she replied, her upturned face looked serene.

He walked back to the house following the Phantom and his wife, who he escorted with an arm entwined with hers. Once inside the kitchen, the two maids stood before the door that must join the dining room.

The younger was wringing her hands in her apron. Mirielle asked, "What is it?"

The maid nodded towards the door. "I went to check upon your guests."

"And? Are they all right?"

"Right as rain," the older maid replied with a grin. "You should make some noise before you go in there."

A look passed between the Phantom and his wife. Christine looked up at him from beneath her lashes. A pink flush rose upon her cheeks.

Erik cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that carried. "I'm glad you enjoyed your walk. Shall we rejoin Nadir and Catherine?"

Raoul held the door open for the party and waited until his wife passed through the door. He nodded politely to the maids, dipped into a curtsey. It was startling to think they were practitioners of a rare religion. After all, like the rest of the family, with the exception of Erik, they appeared so ordinary.


	29. Chapter 29

29.

Nadir had moved to stand beside the fireplace mantel. Catherine turned in her chair with a slight smile towards the kitchen as Erik approached. The two of them would have made a fine advertisement for domestic life, Erik thought. It was time to assess exactly how much Nadir and Catherine had become involved. Or if they even had at this point.

He felt his curiosity stir. If they got along well, it would please Mirielle, and he himself would approve. If they became embroiled in some affair and then broke apart, it might make invitations to the house exclusive for one or the other. The atmosphere of hurt feelings, especially male pride, could make visits take on a strained air. He regarded his long time acquaintance and hoped Nadir would indulge in a cautious approach.

It occurred to him again during these musings that in meeting one woman, he appeared to have adopted half of Paris and a goose to boot. Their circle of family and acquaintances grew in a strange formula that would have surprised a Pythagoras, an Aristotle, or a Democritus. Perhaps good feeling, emotions, and love for others was some sort of sphere of attraction.

Too bad Newton hadn't listed that when the apple fell. There might have occurred some sympathetic chord struck in that genius psyche that might have explained all of this. Erik had never been a party to it until his longing for Christine had seized control of him.

He paused and slipped a hand behind Mirielle's back as she went to the settee. The simple act would not be lost upon his wife. She wore her own secretive smile now.

With the resuming of places around the room, there began to settle a quite as the last rustle of skirt stilled. To his surprise it was Raoul who spoke up first.

"Thank you for your invitation. We have had a pleasant evening. Dinner was marvelous."

"Even the goose…." Christine smiled.

"Olivier will be our guest," Erik said. "Gus found him in the river this morning. We are going to watch over him until we know if he is permanently lame."

"If he is?" Nadir queried.

Erik shrugged, a slight but elegant movement. "If Olivier doesn't mind the company," he slid a look at Mirielle, "we could give him run of the property."

"Could he find his way to the street?" Catherine asked.

Christine looked surprised. She sent a panicked look to Raoul.

"Oh, we shall take care of that." Erik waved a hand. "The gardens are gated on one side of the property. I think Gus and I could bang together something to keep the bird from wandering."

He considered the warm but empty quiet of the room. Never being a guest for long, Erik thought about what point of conversation might be brought up. It seemed important to Mirielle that their guests enjoy the evening. His wife solved the problem.

"I'm so glad you came this evening, Raoul. What are your plans?"

De Chagny stated mildly, "What my wife wishes."

Mirielle smiled. "A perfect answer. But when Christine is at the opera, what shall you be doing?"

The couple hazarded a glance at one another. "I hadn't planned anything," he replied.

"She isn't going to be there the entire trip is she?" Mirielle glanced at Erik. "She must have some time to rest."

"Absolutely," Erik assured her. "There is no need to push for a level of accomplishment. We shall decide upon a pace that accommodates her."

"When is your next session?" Raoul asked.

Erik waited for Christine to say something, but she looked at her hands. The curtain of awkward silence threatened to turn them mute again. His temper could hardly tolerate it after such a positive evening. "Have I shown you my harmonium?"

Nadir groaned. At Catherine's questioning glance, he explained. "I was shanghaied! We came to look at the house and Erik insisted the instrument be brought up from its resting place in the," he paused and waved towards the floor. "That cellar of his."

"Pish," Erik spat.

Nadir held up a hand. "I could have gotten blood poisoning. There we were, the agent and I, left to maneuver that beastly box of pipes up the stairs."

"It doesn't have pipes, Nadir." Erik said with the patience of an adult explaining something to a child. "It is a reed instrument."

"Would you play it, Erik?" Christine sat forward looking at the instrument.

Erik noticed the interest in the Viscount's gaze. What enthralled his wife was given Raoul's utmost attention. "Has anyone a request? No?" Erik moved over to the bench and slid the cover from the keyboard. "I think I could coax a _Petit Riens_ from it. Or perhaps a Muzurka? The Swedish folk dances are like the Mazurkas."

Placing his feet on the pedals for the bellows, Erik perched his hands above the keyboard and began playing a piece written by Félix-Alexandre Guilmant. He ended it with a flourish and a small round of applause erupted from his audience.

"That was lovely," Christine said wistfully.

Erik ran an appreciate hand over the polished wood of the harmonium. "It looks like a piano, but has quite a personality of its own."

"Where did you learn to play?" Catherine asked.

Erik shook his head. "As Mirielle will tell you, I perpetually tinker with things. I've got enough musical background that it is usually a case of playing by ear."

"How marvelous. I can't play anything," she replied.

"Come by some time, Catherine. We shall teach you music."

"Oh, my Maman tried to teach me the piano. I didn't like it. I always wanted to play the flute."

"The flute? Why?"

Catherine shrugged. "I thought it sounded sort of gentle and sad at times."

"The lonely shepherd along the hillside?" Erik asked.

"The song echoing over the mountains," Christine added. She smiled at Raoul. "Like in Sweden."

"Ha," Erik said without humor. "I've heard the noise the herdsman make in Sweden. Bloody awful caterwauling."

"It is not," Christine gasped. "It's—well, it's haunting."

"It's frightening," Erik retorted.

"It makes the trolls go away," Christine returned hotly. She appeared surprised once she had spoken.

"Oh?" Erik turned on the bench.

"My mother believed. She used to tell me stories. Before she died…" Christine's voice grew soft and trailed off into silence.

Erik sat pensive for a moment, waiting for more from his student. He explained to the others, "Her mother was Sami. Her people were nomads, attending herds of reindeer."

"Yes, she was." Christine chin lifted in pride.

"The poor people were reviled by the church for singing what the missionaries thought were songs about devils. Utter nonsense, of course," Erik told the guests. "They didn't have a firm grasp of the language. Or perhaps they heard the singing…."

Christine shot him a fierce look. "It's–it's just different."

"It's a mixture of sounds set to drumming. It favors chanting. Much like the American Indians are said to sing." Erik explained. "If you could picture the poor devil howling like a soul bound for Satan's sitting room."

Christine choked back another gasp. "It is not!"

"Howling?" Erik taunted with a grin.

Christine made a growling noise before drawing in a long breath. From her rose colored lips emitted a wail that got everyone's full attention. She broke the note and formed words, unusual and not understandable to their French ears. The sound of her singing brought Fannie and Anais from the kitchen to see what had happened. Christine brought the short song to a close, looking down at her hands as she did.

Erik looked at Raoul, who sat looking astonished. "_That_ is a _joik_. She's never done that in front of you, has she?" He tried very hard to keep the satisfaction from his voice. Despite their marriage, Erik still knew more about Christine than her own husband.

"No," Raoul replied carefully. "We haven't spoken about the north since Papa Daae left us."

Erik's smug satisfaction wilted at the mention of Christine's father. Of course the man would have told them the stories as children. How typical that his victory should deflate so quickly! He folded his hands on his knee and looked away, afraid Mirielle, with that uncanny way of knowing, would see his distress. Erik attempted a salvage mission. "The Sami are beautiful people. Such an interesting language."

"Can you speak it, Christine?" Raoul asked.

She shook her head. "I only remember some of the songs Papa liked."

"That is your thread, then," Mirielle said. "Someday you shall embroider your children's dreams with the songs your mother left you."

"How beautiful," Christine sighed. "I never thought of it that way."

"I'm a knitter, myself. I've been making things for my grandson."

Christine shot a glance at Erik.

"Do you have any pictures?" Catherine asked. "Children grow so quickly and I know how the two of you must dote on little Henri."

"Allow me," Nadir said. He brought down a frame from the mantel and presented it to Christine and Raoul who bent forward to examine the photo.

"The parents?" Raoul asked.

"Mirielle's daughter Hilarie with her husband Paul. They own a store." Erik leaned forward a little, pointing to the photograph. "I carved that horse for him," Erik embellished.

The couple stared at the photograph. "Your daughter resembles you," Christine told Mirielle.

"Only in looks. She's as canny a shopkeeper as her father was. She and Paul have done very well."

Erik cleared his throat. "My wife gave them the shop when she left Riems. She also provided a house for her other daughter."

"Two daughters?" Christine smiled happily. "I so wanted a sister."

"Someday…you will have a daughter," Erik said quietly.

No one asked him how he knew, or if he were predicting the future. But it did seem that once he spoke those words Raoul was certain he would have a little blond daughter with the bright blue of Sweden's sunny skies in her eyes.

"Well." Nadir took the picture back. "Dinner was splendid. My compliments to your maids. I must be getting a cab for Catherine and I." He put the photograph on the mantel. Catherine gathered her skirts and arose from her chair. Raoul stood swiftly and offered a hand.

"We enjoyed the evening," he said. Catherine shook his hand and then Christine's. She embraced Mirielle who had gotten up as well.

Pleasantries were exchanged and Erik went through the motions. He brushed a kiss upon Catherine's knuckles for the express purpose of thumbing his nose at Nadir. Nadir took Catherine's gloved hand and wound it over his arm. Erik noted that Catherine did not demure from this familiarity.

Raoul conducted himself expertly, and Christine offered her hand to Mirielle. Erik felt his chest constrict as Mirielle embraced the girl as she had her own daughters. With a soft kiss on Christine's cheek she said, "We should have lunch some day. I know a wonderful tea room."

Christine nodded. "That would be very pleasant, Mirielle." She turned to Erik. He took her offered hand and bowed over it, holding it in both of his. "Send me a note when you are ready for the next lesson."

"Good night," she mumbled.

"Good night," he said. Erik glanced at Raoul who stood watching, alert, but more relaxed he believed since their chat I the garden.

He and Mirielle saw them all to the door. The maids came to hand out hats and coats. Once the door closed, Fannie took up her coat. Erik offered to call a cab for her. Mirielle asked if he would life a digestif and he nodded before opening the door. While he held open the cab door for Fannie, she passed him a folded piece of paper with her Mama's address. Erik slid it in his vest pocket.

Like a spell torn from a sorcerer's tome, this could be the link to regaining Christine's voice.

* * *

Joik is the folk music of the Sami and is traditionally performed acapella, and is often dedicated to a person, an animal or a landscape. It is one of the oldest musical traditions of Europe.

You can find links to examples of the _Yoik_ or _Joik_ by looking them up through Wikipedia.


	30. Chapter 30

**30.**

Mirielle came from the parlor, carrying two small glasses of Amaro Montenegro, the Italian digestif that Erik had introduced her to during one of their evenings together. She usually selected the Port or the Brandy for herself. He met her at the stairs and asked, "Would you care for some assistance?"

She offered him a glass, and he took it with a slight nod that swooped closer for a soft kiss.

"Thank you," she pronounced in a whisper.

"Whatever for?"

"You were a wonderful host."

"I've made you happy?"

"Continually," she conceded. "But I'm warning you, I shall expect it."

Erik folded her hand in his and led her up the stairs, "I promised you I would."

"Yes. You've more than exceeded your promise."

Erik noted a change in her voice and stopped to look at her. Mirielle's eyes looked dark in the dim lighting of the stairs, but her face looked serene. "What's this? You're turning serious on me?"

"No. I just want you to know. I want to be sure I tell you every day that you have made me happy."

"I will be sure to remind you if we reach the evening and you have not spoken of it." He bent close to her again. "Erik likes to hear it."

"I want you to know-," she hesitated. "I know how hard this might be for you."

"Pish." Erik waved it off. "Catherine and Nadir are our friends, and well, de Chagny remembered his manners. It was not difficult."

"Not that. I mean how hard it might be for you to see Christine again."

That brought him up short of anything to say. Erik looked at his wife, at the woman who had kissed him and thrown shoes at him and made him a patriarch and a husband in one fell accomplishment. The thought that Mirielle might be worried over Christine nearly stole his voice. Instead of protesting, he shook his head and pulled her up the stairs.

In their bedroom, he led her to the bed and sat her down. She sipped her drink in silence while he closed the curtains and slipped off his jacket. Erik sat his glass down on the table next to the bed. Going to the wardrobe he withdrew her robe and gown and lay them at the foot of the bed. He withdrew his own and retired to the water closet. Mirielle had removed her shoes.

He offered a hand and she got up, picking up her robe she withdrew. He busied his hands with turning down the bed while he waited for her. She came out of the water closet looking tired but refreshed, her hair brushed back from her face. He pulled the covers back and waited to tuck her in. "I'll take the glasses down," he told her.

A swift trip down the stairs was part of the evening's ritual. He checked the doors and the stove and looked across the dark garden toward Madame Aulin's shed where the goose would be sleeping. He then stole silently up the stairs. Putting out the extra lamps, he climbed into bed next to Mirielle.

She glanced over the top of her book. "Are you going to read?"

"I think not. It's been a long day." He turned onto his side and stretched an arm around her waist.

Mirielle put out the lamp and snuggled down into the sheets. Erik waited for her to settle before spooning next to her. He found her hand and turned the wedding ring upon her finger. Mirielle's fingers grasped reflexively.

"I choose us," Erik said against her cheek.

"I love you, too," came her exquisitely soft reply.

* * *

Morning was the opposite of evening. Lamps were lit, stoves were filled with coal and kindling, and clothes were chosen and donned. Through the morning routine, Erik enjoyed the sound of his wife's skirts rustling and the clink of jewelry as she picked it up. Smells began wafting up the stairs shortly after Anais arrived and began the task of assembling breakfast.

"I'll bring you a coffee," Erik offered.

Mirielle hustled to the door of their room. "I'd like to eat downstairs."

Erik held the door, but stared at the back of his wife's head. He was going to talk to Anais about the trip to Fannie's mother's shop. He hadn't planned on Mirielle being privy to the entire goings on. Especially since they now included Raoul de Chagny.

He caught up with her as she descended the steps with care. "I was going to tell you about Madame Aulin."

"What about her?"

"We had an interesting conversation when we were alone."

"Oh dear. She didn't say you looked pale again, did she?"

"No. And I do not believe for one minute that she has trouble seeing. She says she reads. And she's as sharp as you or I."

Mirielle hesitated. "Do you think she knows who you are?"

"I'm sure of it." Erik paused and considered his wife's choice of words. "Who I was."

"Was, were, are." She waved his words aside and she started down the stairs.

"Was," he repeated. "I' m a—."

"A what? Your are part of the Opera's security force, aren't you? You still teach at the Opera. We still have Box Five at our disposal."

"I'm still the Phantom of the Opera?"

His wife smiled sweetly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Yes, Erik."

Flummoxed, Erik considered the way the back of her skirts drew to the riser and fell over the edges of the stairs as she walked. "I'm not the Phantom. That's behind me now. I'm a married man and a home owner. I can't have any of that nonsense going on in my home."

Mirielle turned regally at the bottom step. In the voice that once haunted his dreams she said seductively, "Nothing is going to happen in your home, dear. We'll save all the strange things for the Opera shall we?"

"Strange things?"

"Mmhmm. The spying the skullduggery, the education of bumbling guards and shy singers. People are relying upon you, Erik."

"Poppycock."

"It is not."

"Utter claptrap."

Mirielle had reached the door to the kitchen. She pushed it open wide enough to step part of the way through and turned to look at him. With a wink she said, "Women adore dangerous men." She let the door swing closed as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Erik snorted and turned towards the dining room. "No they don't," he carped. "Not this one," he finished under his breath. He stalked towards his customary chair at the dining table. The flowers from the previous evening still stood in the vase. The sunlight was wan on this spring morning, but cheerful. From beyond the door there came the sound of feminine laughter. He smiled despite his misgivings about Mirielle's comment. She was teasing him, and teasing was always appropriate for the two of them. It took the place of questions, or awkward silences.

Despite throwing the dinner party and working late, Anais had arrived on time and laid out plates for breakfast, the aroma of coffee filled the air and the Paris newspapers that Erik liked to peruse were awaiting him on the corner of the table.

Beyond the window, someone was taking a cab, for Erik could make out the clop clop of the horses measured pace along the cobblestones of the street. He needed to have a brief moment with his maid and find out at what hour Fannie's mother would be available for a private consultation. He did believe that showing up in broad daylight with his mask in place might create another sensation. Paris had enough sensations at his cost, it would be better to have a little meeting without gaping customers or fainting ladies.

Screams were annoying, and Erik never felt comfortable around fainting women. It tended to stir up a scene with any accompanying gentlemen who thought it prudent to warn him off. Erik had learned to make himself scarce rather than try to rectify the situation. Things always had a way of turning out for the worse, despite his desire to put people's fear to rest.

With a sigh, he picked up the paper.

* * *

Mirielle insisted upon doing something in the kitchen with Anais. For the first time, it rankled Erik that the hours of the day were sliding past, along with available cabs, and he hadn't any information to send to Nadir or de Chagny. Lunch was finished, and he really should be sending word to the other men.

He got to his feet and pushed in the bench before the harmonium. Straightening his jacket sleeves, he walked unhurriedly towards the kitchen. Pausing before the door, he let his fingertips hover over the wood panels. Feminine voices beyond the door were lowered in a hushed whisper.

Despite himself, Erik inclined his ear closer. The door muffled the highs and lows of the voices. It would be Anais and Mirielle, of course. What could they be talking about in such low tones?

He straightened swiftly, glancing about the hall, stricken with embarrassment. Erik would not spy upon his wife! With a grunt of disgust he pushed open the door. "I hope I'm not interrupting?"

Anais was peeling potatoes. Mirielle sat with a pen poised over a sheaf of paper. "No, Erik. We are just enjoying the quiet. Did you need something?"

"No," he replied automatically. "But, I would like to ask Anais at what time it would be convenient for me to visit Fannie's Mother."

Mirielle nodded. "Good idea."

Anais glanced down at the small watch pin that was always attached to her apron. "Maman Totin conducts the Peristyle at eight o'clock. Her shop closes shortly before that."

"So late?" Erik asked.

Anais shrugged. "She sells botanical ingredients for charms as well as spices for food. Many people come by late to spend their wages just before a ceremony. They pick up what they need for that particular Loa."

Erik took up the chair across from Mirielle. "I find this fascinating."

Mirielle smiled. "It sounds so mystical. Positively exciting if you ask me." She glanced downward.

Erik sensed his wife was cursing her recent injury. She must be unhappy over being excluded from this trip.

He tapped long fingers on the table top. "Now, Mirielle. Let that ankle of yours heal completely. Nadir is accompanying me. You know he will have to tell you every detail. More than you would ever need to know, I might point out."

"He's just thorough," Mirielle soothed.

"He's a Persian busy-body! I hope he and Catherine get along. It will give him something to do besides plan dinner parties for me."

"You enjoyed yourself," Mirielle drawled. "Besides, I want someone along who will make sure you don't get up to anything nefarious."

Erik nearly sputtered. "Nefarious? Me? Nefarious? Not likely with that Persian policeman dogging my steps."

Mirielle tsked. "The two of you are inseparable, and you know it, Erik. Besides it gives you company."

"You mean it gives you someone to spy upon me," he pointed out. "Don't deny it, you want desperately to know what we will be doing."

She lifted a brow. "All right. Nadir is my spy. But he is good company. He's gotten practice chasing around Paris with you and keeping you out of trouble."

"Trouble? He slows me down."

"That may well be, dear. But he has smoothed the way for you a number of times."

Erik glared at his wife. "What do you mean by that?"

"Like house hunting? You aren't the most patient of men when people gawk at you, Erik."

"I don't suffer fools."

"And you shouldn't. But if you are in a situation that could be improved upon with grace, then by all means let Nadir smooth a few feathers for you."

Erik nearly huffed at such nonsense. "Weren't you the woman ready to scratch someone's eyes out because they caused a scene in front of a hotel when I exited a cab?"

Mirielle sat up straight. "Yes, I was. And that is why Nadir must accompany you. You need someone to turn aside such nonsense."

Sensing Mirielle would not be satisfied unless Nadir went along in her absence, Erik acquiesced. "Nadir has lots of practice at that." He didn't point out his own experience at pulling Nadir out of potentially dangerous situations. Erik added, "And he can keep de Chagny busy."

"Busy?" Mirielle stared at him. "Why busy?"

Erik shrugged and lifted a hand. "A turn of phrase. Nothing more. Nadir can act as a buffer between the Viscomte and I."

Mirielle looked down at the table and then back at him. She said softly, "I had hoped that the two of you could come to an understanding."

Remembering the garden, Erik nodded. "We have. He loves his wife and worries over her. But he has exhibited enough intelligence that he will leave this to me. I just don't want any scenes. I'm not sure how he acts in public."

"Erik, he's probably had manners drummed into his head since the day he could speak."

"Yes, yes. I just don't want to assume anything. After all, I am going someplace where I might be recognized."

Erik shot a glance at Anais, who smirked as she looked over her shoulder. "You have warned them, haven't you?"

Anais bobbed her head. "Yes, M'suer. They are eager to meet with you."

Erik felt a surge of curiosity. "How so?"

"You made quite an impression on Fanchon."

Erik settled back in the chair. Mirielle looked worried, which caused him to allay her fear for his evening. "I like Fannie. She did a good job and was quite pleasant."

"She likes you too," Anais said, wiping her hands on a small towel. "And Madame. I don't doubt that they will be disappointed that you did not escort your wife to the store."

Mirielle glanced at her maid in surprise. "Me?"

Anais smiled. "They want to meet the woman who married the Baron."

"Oh, for heaven sake," Erik griped. "Not one of those meetings between women." He glared at Mirielle. "No telling secrets."

She smiled, the sort of mischievous smile he loved to be the cause of. "No secrets from me," Mirielle said. "Other than you are a good husband."

Erik reached for her hand. "You can always let that one slip." He brushed a kiss on her palm. "I must get a note to the hotel. I promised I'd let de Chagny know the time. And Nadir."

Erik withdrew, going to the living room to a small secretary that Mirielle used for writing letters. He took up a pen and paper and then proceeded to the door to flag down a cab. Standing outside in the warming sun, he breathed in the smells of the street. He would have to find something to occupy his mind until the evening.

Glancing back at Madame Aulin's home, he remembered Olivier. A small neighborly visit might be in order.


	31. Chapter 31

**31.**

Erik glanced outside. The wind rushed through the branches of the trees in his back garden. "I shall just take a quick look in on Olivier."

"And the neighbor," Mirielle added. "Thank her for coming over to dinner."

Erik nodded to his wife and went out the back door. The wind was picking up and high clouds raced through the cold but bright blue sky. The color of it almost hurt his eyes. He glanced down at his feet and turned up his coat collar. Taking a short cut through the adjoining gardens, he stepped quickly along the path to Madame Aulin's home. He stopped before her door and lifted the knocked. Tapping it twice against the door, he stepped well back upon her stoop.

The lady must have been nearby, for she answered the door. Peering out, her face brightened with a smile. "M. Vachon! Step inside. So nice of you to visit."

Erik made a show of wiping his feet. "Thank you, Madame. I wanted to check on the goose. You know how animals are. He might be disoriented and step in his water and knock it over."

"Yes. Augustin will be by today. He will probably check in on the bird as well."

Erik replayed the events of the day before in his mind. Gus must have promised her he would look in on Olivier when he put the goose in the small shed. But to Erik's knowledge, Madame Aulin had used that as an excuse to stop by his house. Had she been told, or was her hearing that good? "I was planning on going out this evening to visit. I just thought I would check now. And my wife sends her regards. She's very happy that you came to dinner."

The older woman sighed delicately. "Oh, well, I invited myself really. You both were kind enough to invite me once I came in."

"Nonsense. It was our first dinner party." He paused and glanced out of the glass that framed one side of her door. "To be truthful, it was my first dinner party."

Her brows climbed in surprise. "It was?" She recovered and smiled. "A bachelor?"

He smiled gently at her. "More than that Madame. Much more than that." He paused and looked at her. She waited patiently and Erik felt the words pour forth before he had a chance to truly ponder the truth. "I was the Phantom of the Opera."

She smiled sweetly, her still softly rounded cheeks lifted in pleasure and her eyes sparkled. "I knew it."

He grinned in return. "I thought you might. You are an accomplished spy, Madame. Are you sure you have not been employed by the French Secret Services?"

She giggled, placing her fingertips over her lips. She looked up at Erik from beneath her lashes. "I'm not allowed to speak of such things."

"Excellent!" he cried. "Madame, you must join us for dinner again. I would love to explore all those secrets you carry."

"Oh! I don't know what ever you must be thinking!" She leaned forward. "What night should I come?"

"Any. I shall check with my wife. Mirielle loves a good story. She'll be alone tonight. I don't want her out since the weather is still changeable and she turned her ankle."

"I suppose I could come by," she began. "I was just going to have a light supper."

"Madame, my maid Anais is an absolute wizard in the kitchen. She can stir up some of the tastiest exotic dishes. You simply most come over! Mirielle and I will be so happy."

She laced her hands together. "I would be very happy to come spend the evening with your wife."

Erik sketched a slight bow. "Thank you, Madame. I shall tell them to expect you. At what time would you like?"

"I take my meal early," she began. "When you are my age, bed time is not so long after the sun sets."

"Come when you are ready. Mirielle always knits, or crochets or something. She'd love to chat until the meal hour."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

"Our pleasure, Madame." Erik sketched a bow. "I'll just go look in on the goose."

* * *

Anais Duvalier pushed the cut potatoes into the pot and placed the lid over it. She turned the handle away, and then turned to pick up her cutting board. She heard her employer speak.

"Can I ask you something?"

Anais smiled before she turned to look at her mistress. Madame Vachon had folded her hands on the table, looking out the window towards the back garden. She cleared her throat and asked, "I know I'm being overcautious…."

Anias dried her hands upon the kitchen towel, putting her back to the sink. "Monsiuer Khan will be accompanying your husband. Fannie's mother and the other priestesses have been told of his visit. All will be well."

The older woman sighed and rested her chin in a hand, propping her arms on the table. "I detest being ill or injured! It means I shall have to stay home."

Anais waited for her to say more. When she didn't seem ready to ask, Anais ventured, "If I leave directly after he leaves, I can be at the shop. In case anything happens."

"Would you?" Mirielle Vachon's lips compressed in a smile she appeared to be embarrassed to let slip.

"I'd be happy to," Anais replied sincerely. "They know he is coming. People have been prepared."

Her mistress dropped her hands and studied her nails.

"You wish something else, though, don't you?" Anias asked.

Madame Vachon made a noise. "Erik says I am as clear as crystal."

"I can tell you want something else, Madame."

"What sort of things will Erik see?"

"You want a report?"

"I wish I could see it all. I," she hesitated, "I know Erik has a quick mind and a voracious hunger for new things. I just want to know what he might be experiencing. I mean, Nadir is a wonderful police man, but a man just doesn't see everything like a woman does." She paused. "Do you understand what I mean?"

Anais nodded. "I will go look in on them tonight," she agreed. "I can have Fannie's mother set the men a few tasks which will take their time to complete. While they work on things to bring the loa, you and I can take a cab to the shop."

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" The woman's eyes shone with excitement. "Do you think we should bring Christine along?"

Anias nodded. "It shall be my pleasure to introduce you to my world."

Madame Vachon got to her feet. "I should prepare a note for Christine. You could have it delivered to her hotel room when you leave." She rubbed her cheek, looking down at the papers on the table. "I'm going to leave this here. If I clean up everything, Erik might become suspicious."

Taken aback, Anais stepped forward and looked at the letters. "I don't think your husband would be suspicious."

Mirielle put a finger on the lip. "Yes. Well. You know I wonder what he does down stairs." She pointed to the door that led to the basement, the part of the house where M. Vachon disappeared for hours. "If I'm keeping an eye upon him—purely to be sure of not disturbing him—then he might do the same for me." She shrugged. "He is very attentive."

Anais cleared her throat. "I'll be sure to make it looks like you and Madame de Chagny went for tea. Nothing else."

"Thank you, Anais."

* * *

Erik breezed through the front door and straight to the kitchen. Pushing open the door that separated the hall from the kitchen proper, he smiled as he caught sight of his wife. Rubbing his hands together, he told her, "I have just had the most informative conversation with our neighbor."

Mirielle motioned towards a chair. "I waited for you to have tea. Would you like a cup?"

Erik nodded briskly. "You will love this."

"I will?" His wife raised a brow and glanced over her shoulder at Anais, who was approaching with a grin. "The last time you were brimming with excitement I was informed you were the Lord of Sex. What on earth could Madame Aulin have to add that would top that?"

Erik paced as Anais poured the tea and fetched a small plate of fruit to add to the table. Mirielle waited with her hands folded.

As Anais withdrew, Erik surged into his own chair and leaned over the table. "I believe our neighbor was a spy."

Mirielle tittered with laughter. "Oh, Erik, neighbors do that! Especially housebound ones. They find great amusement in watching the rest of the goings on in their streets. It gives them something to look forward to."

"No," he protested. "Not like a busy-body. I believe she really was a spy."

Mirielle still wore her amused smile. "Of course, dear."

Erik stilled and shot a glance at Anais. His maid copied his wife's expression down to the slight tilt of her head. "Good lord," Erik murmured. "I'm not so old I'm in my dotage! I'm telling you that little woman has experience in political secrets."

"Of course-"

He flipped up a hand. "Don't you dare, you little rogue. You were at the table. She acted like she didn't notice my mask, but saw straight to the other end of the table where she noted the henna stains upon your hand."

Erik saw the moment that Mirielle realized the truth in his assumption.

"Ah, ha! You see?"

Mirielle traced her saucer with a fingertip. "I remember now…."

"Yes. And did you make note of her dress? It wasn't like she'd been startled upon seeking her bed. She wore jewelry and carried a handkerchief. All she lacked was a hat."

"What has that to do with it?"

"She was prepared for dinner. She was perfumed and had on face powder, like you wear. I detected a similar smell."

His wife lifted her cup and blew across the steaming surface. "And you made note of all of this?"

"You know me, my dear. It's been my life to make observations. Being aware is what I do. And I do it well."

"Yes, Erik." She smiled demurely. "Like in the restaurant when you dragged your cuff through the sauce."

He felt a growl rising. He wanted to refute her statement, but remembered how befuddled he'd been. "That was different. That was just between us."

Mirielle lifted her cup and smiled. "Are you saying courtship had your head spinning?"

He harrumphed before he could catch himself. Leaning closer he said quietly. "I had a most intriguing dinner companion. She was doing naughty things beneath the table cloth."

Anais made a choking noise and caught herself before she could laugh out loud. Mirielle continued to smile. "I suppose she did."

"She was distracting me." Erik paused and sat back. "But I tell you, our neighbor has some secrets to share. And you do know that there are no secrets that can slip between my fingers. I told her she should come over and keep you company." He glanced at Anais. "Could you manage an early supper? Something light?"

Anais nodded. "Yes, M'suer."

Mirielle sat her cup down and pushed her chair away from the table. Erik leaped to his feet to assist his wife. She smoothed a hand over her hair. "I'll just go freshen up. In case Madame Aulin is early."

He watched his wife hurry through the hall door. Erik reached for his tea cup. "I don't understand the need to freshen up. My wife always looks wonderful. It isn't like she's been crawling in the back garden flower beds."

Anais gathered her mistress's cup. "She will splash water on her face, renew her perfume and change her ear rings. And maybe add a bracelet. Something that makes the evening repast seem a shade more formal now that she will have a visitor."

"I understand now." Erik nodded. He watched Anais carry the cup to the sink. "I still have so much to learn."

Anais stopped and looked at him. "Don't worry yourself. You are more observant than most husbands."

"I," he paused and gathered his thoughts. "I remember you said that hell was a dark and watery place."

"Yes?"

"I know it well. I lived there for over a dozen years. Alone in the dark. I've come above ground now, into the world she led me to. It feels like I'm still being led."

Anais smiled. "Not so cold now?"

"No. Not at all."

Shaking her head, Anais turned her back to the sink and set her hands upon the edge. "You are more him than you realize, I think. The Baron, I mean.

"He walks the edges of both worlds, that of spirit and flesh. He is the one who masters death and yet he will do all he can to protect a sick child, forbidding death to take the babe away. If the Baron refuses to dig the grave, a person is saved."

"What has that to do with me?" Erik asked as he spread his hands. "I cannot hold back death."

"You have. That plot at the Opera. And who knows for certain how many more." She paused. "You never know when you have been someone's angel."

Erik felt a smile upon his lips. "I can say for certain I have been an angel. And I shall be again." He got up from the table and headed for the door. It was time to secure a cab. The sun had drawn low in the sky, painting the rooftops with purple shadows. With the dark would come a new light.


	32. Chapter 32

32.

The cab arrived as Anais ushered in Madame Aulin. Nadir Khan stood opened the cab door and waited. "Welcome, Madame," Anais said, taking the lady's shawl. She turned as her employer arrived.

Erik offered a hand to the older woman. "Good evening, my wife is waiting for you."

Mirielle swept into the hall, "Welcome, Madame. I'm so happy that you have agreed to keep my company while my husband is out."

The older woman glanced up at Erik. "You aren't needed at the Opera again, are you?"

Erik waved off her despair. "No, no. Nothing so dangerous as that. I'm merely picking up a friend and making some arrangements for my student. You remember Madame de Chagny? She has resumed her lessons with me."

The older woman glanced at Mirielle. "Does he mean, that young woman…."

Mirielle grinned and bobbed her head. "That lady was known to Paris as Christine Daaé."

Madame Aulen's reaction changed from concerned to amazed. "That girl? She was the soprano?"

Erik slid his hands behind his back, nodding. "Yes. You picked the evening that the Persian, M. Nadir and the Viscomte de Chagny came to dinner with the man who tried to cut short their lives in hopes of persuading the lady to marry him."

"She refused you." Madame Aulin said sadly.

"No. She agreed." Erik's head dipped, then lifted, his eyes turning to his wife. "It's a story that should be savored over a glass of fine cognac. Perhaps another evening?" He turned slowly, capturing his hat and coat from Anais' hands and stepped out onto the stoop and into the darkness that enveloped his retreating figure.

Anais pushed the door closed, leaving Madame Aulin to remark, "My. He makes an interesting exit does he not?"

Mirielle looked bemused as she stared at the closed door. "It might be a part of the whole Ghost mystique."

"Do you think so?"

Mirielle took the lady's arm and settled it upon her own. "Being housebound does give me time to think about some of my husband's behaviors. You do know he is the Phantom of the Opera?"

"Of course," The lady waved a hand. "I've read about him in the papers, the story of the soprano and then the plot. And, if I may ask, are you the Velvet Widow?"

Mirielle laughed. "Ah, yes! I haven't heard that name in some months now."

"I knew it as soon as I saw him here with that Persian gentleman. How many other masked men would be so accompanied as they searched for a house?"

"That didn't alarm you, did it?"

"At first I was curious. Nothing much happens in this part of the city other than petty crimes or arguments on the street about cabs and what not. It was rather exciting to think someone famous might be moving in."

"You weren't worried about his, erm, behavior?"

The older woman paused at the dining room door as they drew closer to it. "Oh, my dear. I wasn't sure. I was willing to give him a chance. Then I saw him in your back garden. He held your arm and walked you to the river pointing out branches and peering at things. It's as if he was a man who had been set free.

"I suppose he was, if the story about his house is accurate."

Mirielle guided the older woman to the table. "Yes. Most of what has appeared in the papers has been accurate. Especially the plot that night at the performance."

"He should be decorated! Any man who willingly puts his life on the line for the citizens of Paris deserves a medal."

"He has something that means much more," Mirielle explained. "He has acceptance. It's all he's really ever wanted."

"I'm glad. But it was not always so, was it? It was the reason for his, uhm, behavior?"

"Boys will be boys," Mirielle teased.

Madame Aulen giggled like a girl, turning her soft looking little cheeks as bright as apples. "I do love mystery. You must tell me everything!"

"Would you mind is we ate in the kitchen? My maid needs to leave early this evening."

"I eat in my kitchen all the time. It's the warmest room in the house. And, anyway, that huge dining table seems superfluous if there aren't visitors. I mean, it's only me." She quieted her voice. "Sometimes I even eat in my bedroom slippers."

"You are welcome to keep a pair here, then." Mirielle guided her to the door that opened to the kitchen. Over her shoulder she nodded to Anais, who stood poised at the front door.

Anais slipped silently out into the night.

* * *

Erik settled back onto the cab's seat. "Are you ready for a little adventure?"

Nadir tapped a finger against the brim of his hat in mock salute. "At your service. As always, I shall be one step behind you."

Erik lifted long fingers to stroke his lapel. As fastidious as he was where his couture was concerned, Nadir recognized the gesture for what it was. It was a simple time filler. Erik would brush away the imagined speck on his coat while his mind whirled miles ahead of him.

"Getting your dogs in a row?" Nadir asked.

"Ducks, Nadir. The phrase calls for ducks."

"You are nervous? You said that Fannie and Anais had arranged this trip. Rely upon their discretion, Erik," Nadir said affably. "I doubt anyone involved would wish to see a scene made. It would be embarrassing for Fannie's mother."

Erik's eyes reflected a flash of gold as the cab passed a street lamp. "You know me," he replied softly. "I abhor scandal, and well, I wouldn't want to ruin their evening."

"How could you?" Nadir was immediately puzzled by Erik's answer.

Resting his palms over the silver knob of his walking stick, Erik made a careless shrug. "It's a ceremony, Nadir. I hope they do not believe I am their spirit they have called."

"Ah. I begin to see. You are everyone's haunting spirit and you now wish to be Erik."

"Erik for Erik," the Phantom clarified. "It's all I want. I worry that my mask will make them think I am more than a man." His hand lifted, his fingers once again fanning open slowly next to his cheek. It was a gesture Nadir had witnessed countless times.

"You mean to say you hope they do not mistake you for this spirit? You do not want them to believe you are a twin to this supernatural agent."

"Precisely the dilemma I fear awaits me."

Nadir sat forward. "We don't have to do this. Christine will be none the wise."

"I promised them I would come to the shop."

"You are a man of complicated morals, Erik. But do not fear. I believe that Anais and Fannie have seen you for what you are. Have faith. I know you do." Nadir wagged a finger in Erik's direction, warding off any quick response.

"If you wish," Erik capitulated. "I will want your word that if I change my mind, we shall leave."

Nadir nodded. "That is what I am here for."

The cab ride went on for what felt like hours for Erik. Nadir made casual comments as they entered different streets. When the buildings that passed were entirely new to Erik, he felt his curiosity sharpen. He opened the cab's window a little, taking in the local sounds over the clatter of the wheels. Sound had always been important to Erik, being a precursor of violence or a genie's lamp that would transport him out of his own world.

Turning a corner, the cab slowed and pulled up to a curb. Nadir leaned forward and read the sign over the store front. "We have arrived." He swung open the cab door and held it.

Erik slide out onto the street, tucking a number of franc notes into Nadir's hand. "Pay the fair, Nadir."

Taking a step forward, Erik looked up and down the sidewalk of the street. The walk was not as wide as the proper Parisian streets. The facades along it looked older, though obviously well taken care of. If this arrondissement held immigrants from the Caribbean, they might be poorer than the sounding streets of Paris.

No one milled at the front of the store. From its window's he took in details of the shop. It looked filled to the brim with a riot of colors. The hues excited his imagination, pulling his gaze from one side to the other, sweeping over objects his mind catalogued like strange flowers. Wrapping a hand over the top of the walking stick, Erik went to the door.

A small series of chimes tinkled overhead. The air inside was warm, not the sort of dry air from heaters, but a slightly humid atmosphere of a forest. Behind the long counter were countless glass jars and ceramic crocks. Each had a tag looped over its neck. Some held seed pods, twigs, clumps of material like stones and ground up ingredients. As he noted the contents, the smells of the shop assailed his nose. The store was like stepping into garden.

All around, candles stood ready to burn in rows of colors and shapes. Many were copies of Catholic saints. Some were skulls and others, mere towers of colors like black, red, purple, pink, white and yellow. As Erik scanned the shelves and tables, the same colors were repeated.

Across the aisle and near the window were what looked like flags and small figures covered in colorful sequins and trimmed in fabrics of many colors. On a small display case were bottles sporting names like Florida Water, Four Thieves Vinegar, Frankincense Oil, Dragon's Blood Oil, Cinnamon Amber and Civet Oils, Gain Money and Fast Luck Oils, some wrapped in white paper with printed script and others sporting parti-colored labels with unusual decorations.

Finishing his short excursion along the shelves, he joined Nadir at the doorway. "They have a bottle of Dragon's Blood Oil."

"What?" Nadir looked in the direction Erik pointed. "There are dragons in the Caribbean?"

Erik chuckled. "The dragon in question is a palm plant. It's been used for centuries. Italian violins are varnished with it—it gives them their reddish sheen!"

Nadir grinned and Erik abruptly stopped speaking. Nadir doffed his hat towards the back of the store. Erik turned to see Fannie standing behind the counter, her mouth covered by her fingers in what he suspected would be her shy grin. Next to her stood the woman who must be her mother, for her own smile mimicked her daughter's.

Erik took off his own top hat and nodded a greeting. "Good evening."

Fannie giggled and set her hand upon the woman's shoulder. "Monsieur Vachon, may I present my Maman, Noémi Toton." Noémi was slightly taller, and decidedly more voluptuous than her daughter. She wore a white scarf wrapped turban-like over her hair. Dark pin curls framed her forehead. As she smiled, Erik noted two of her teeth were missing. It did not dim her radiant feminine allure. Her skin was a darker hue, which contrasted beautifully with her white dress, a simple, gathered affair with crocheted lace around the neck.

Nadir stepped swiftly around Erik, his bowler in his hand and the other extended. "Nadir Khan."

"Bonsior," Madame Toton replied shaking his offered hand. "Welcome to my botanica."

Nadir gestured towards Erik. "Don't mind him. He's like a child in a toy shop. You have already snared his interest with Dragon's Blood."

Erik stepped forward. "Apologies. I hadn't realized you were waiting on me to finish circumventing the shop."

Noémi Toton stepped out from behind the counter and offered a hand to Erik. As he clasped it he noted her hands were warm, soft, and very strong. Noémi leaned closer, looking him in the eye. "Thank you for employing my daughter. She very much enjoyed your dinner and your visiting goose."

"It was our pleasure."

"Is the goose still there?"

"He—he lives next door for the moment."

Noémi swept a hand in the direction of the jars behind the counter. "If you know Dragon's Blood you might recognize some of the other ingredients we supply."

"How are they used?"

Nadir faked a great sigh. "He's off already. Don't let him ask more than a thousand questions. I think he knows why the sky is blue all ready."

Erik shot Nadir a quelling glance. "I'm not that bad. I find this interesting. And exciting."

Noémi shook her head. "You are so close to him, to the Baron." Her voice sounded reverent and amused. She set a hand on her hip and gave Erik what appeared to be a very flirtatious wink. "You sure you have never been to the Islands?"

Erik felt his cheeks warm beneath his mask. Mirielle had been the only woman who flirted with him before. "I traveled the other direction. Towards the East. It's how I met Nadir. In Persia."

"Persia?" Noémi's glance took in Nadir head to toe. "I've never seen an Eastern man with such unusual eyes. I though all of them had dark eyes."

In the overhead lights and the small flames of the candles, Erik could see Nadir's cheeks flush. He would leave tonight and never let Nadir hear the end of it. Mirielle would have a good laugh at Nadir being embarrassed. He looked swiftly at Madame Toton's hand a noted the lack of a wedding ring. But hadn't Fannie said her Papa would not let her marry yet? If so, what had happened to her father?

In that instance, he thought of his home, Mirielle, Anais and how this place seemed to be another bright warm spot in his life. Erik held back a relieved sigh and followed Noémi to the counter.

Curiosity was a wonderful evil. It abducted his reason so that old fears would be left behind. Meeting the rest of the participants in the ceremony did not seem so daunting now.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: ** Profound apologies for letting this one lapse. My life is one of those meandering paths at this stage. I vow to get this one done!

**33.**

"You must be anxious to meet our priestess," Noémi Toton said as she drew even with the counter. "In our religion, we call this person a Mambo. Our priests are called Houngan. They are your father and mother in the family of the spirits."

Fannie opened the door at the back of the shop, while Noémi motioned Erik to proceed. She waited until he passed, then took hold of Nadir's arm. "C'mon, mon cher. All the family members can fit in my office."

"As long as I am not intruding," Nadir offered quietly.

Noémi waved aside his reply. "My Fannie told me that M. Vachon would be bringing a friend." She leaned closer and whispered. "I'd like to meet his wife."

Nadir recognized a fellow conspirator when he saw one. "I'll tell her of your interest. Mirielle would love to be here. Perhaps she can visit later?"

"Everyone is welcome," Noémi replied.

The room beyond was little more than the width of a hall in which an empire period desk sat firmly ensconced along the wall. Papers were arranged in neat stacks. Spending years in the service of the police, Nadir knew he would not be the only one noting all the little details. Erik was like a sponge, capable of swiftly taking in miniscule details that might escape someone else. It had become a game between them, seeing who discovered important nuances that the other had let escape.

They passed through another opening, another chamber in the back of the shop. This one stored stacked crates. At the end, an opened door awaited. Nadir stepped into the early evening air just a step behind Erik. Looking over his companion's shoulder, he noted an open courtyard that centered around a pillar. A number of small benches sat at points along the walled area. Noémi led them to a woman sitting upon one of the benches, two chairs waited facing her.

Fannie stepped behind the bench, to the woman's right and dropped a hand gently upon the woman's shoulder. "M. Vachon, may I present Mambo Sabine."

Erik moved forward to take the woman's outstretched hands. It was hard to judge her height since she was sitting, but Erik intuitively felt the woman's force of personality made her appear to fill the room with a calm welcome. Sabine was of middle years judging by the lines upon her face. They were marks set by smiles rather than frowns. Her hair was caught up in a turban and her shoulders covered by a draped shawl of white. Like Fannie and her mother, Mambo Sabine wore a white dress graced with ruffles at the elbows and the bottom of the skirt. Would it be some sort of vestment required for the ceremonies?

Sabine clasped his fingers with hers. She smiled slowly, and emitted a small gasp. "Ah, Monsieur Vachon. I was told resembled our Baron. I feel the shifting of the balance even now. Your namesake grows nearer. Perhaps he is curious about you as well, no?"

"Mambo Sabine, I thank you for this opportunity to speak to you about your religion."

"Sit," she spread wide her hands. Nadir and Erik found themselves alone with the Mambo, Fannie and her mother had withdrawn quietly. Erik introduced Nadir as they settled themselves before Sabine.

"I must confess, I do not know where to begin," Erik told her. "I had hired a maid, her name is Anais Duvalier, she is one of your, ah, adherents. I asked her about your beliefs because I have a student, a young woman, who I believe has lost the soul of her voice."

Sabine folded her hands upon her lap, nodding as she listened.

"I do not wish to impose upon you, but I had asked Madame Duvalier if it would be possible to conduct some ceremony for my student."

Sabine cleared her throat. "Before we say more, I must ask, why do you believe this will help this person?"

The woman sat, openly welcoming and curious, but Erik sensed the importance of the question. "I—I know this person to hold fast to a belief in angels as well as other supernatural beings. I cannot find a way to breach what terror has taken hold of her. At first, I thought she was out of practice and a little of afraid of me still. But there is something troubling her, it keeps her from finding-." He stopped, his hand poised in the air as if somewhere Christine's missing perfect pitch fluttered like moth awaiting the cage of his hand.

"You believe that we can give this back to her?"

"I do not know," he confessed. "Perhaps you could guide me?"

Sabine nodded slowly. "I can guide you through my world, but our place in this world is at an edge, a crossroad. While man stands on one side with his cares and woes, the spirits inhabit the other.

"A long time ago when the earth was new, the spirits existed. The church tells us that God watches over us, cares for us, sends angels to minister to us. That is partially correct. Those of us who were raised in the faith of the people understand that the spirits do not interfere with man. It is their place as well as ours to exist, to carry out our lives seeking to create a balance in all things. Evil cannot exist if there is no good. Sloth is the bane of the toiling man. Gold is a means to many ends. Good works can set right a bad deed.

"To the loa, the balance is what they seek. When a person needs help, they approach Papa Legba who is the master of the doorway through which the other loa must pass to enter our world. The loa you implore for help is the one you wish to draw to that door."

Erik sat forward, hands clasped together. "So the edges are close, but the realms are separate. Forgive me, but this calling a spirit sounds similar to what people go to Mediums for a séance."

Sabine lifted a finger. "The most elusive and important detail of our world, is that it came from a feeling of a lack of power over our lives. We were slaves, Monsiuer. Ripped from the arms of our families, marched to harbors to endure voyages across a sea we barely believed existed. We would leave the ships to be brought to our masters. Our lives were for gain, the Master's gain alone. We married as he commanded, and we worked where he needed until many of us dropped from exhaustion.

Sabine paused. "But you must know these things—back to my point. We held no power over our lives. Those of us who were old enough brought with us the teachings of our families, the belief that the divine has little interest in us, but the spirits could and would be our allies. We implore the spirits to heed us. They teach us that a balance must be maintained."

Sabine paused and rocked a little in her seat, nodding. "It sounds as if your student may have the same worries."

Nadir's voice broke the soft silence. "I agree. Christine has always been in need of protectors in her life. She lost her mother and then her father."

"And," Erik finished, "she called upon the Angel of Music." He sat silent for a moment. The light grew dimmer around the courtyard. "She has no one to intercede for her at the Opera anymore. Since she's left, she's fallen out of favor. It must seem daunting to her."

"I have just the thing for you then," Sabine replied. She glanced to one side. "Ah, Noémi has some refreshments for us."

Noémi carried a tray, with Fannie passing each person a chill glass of liquid. Erik caught the waft of lemon and decided it must be lemonade. Parisians were more accustomed to coffee or tea being offered, but the idea of the cool liquid seemed perfect in the open air and sky.

Erik watched over the rim of his glass as Sabine gently slid a piece of paper from the tray Noémi held. "Excuse me," she said looking up to catch Erik's watchful gaze. "Another of my practitioners sends me a message." She glanced at it and nodded her assent to Noémi, who slipped away silently.

"Now, as I was saying," Sabine continued.

* * *

Noémi slipped through the office and out behind the counter. "She got it."

"Whew!" Anais Duvalier said, rolling her eyes to the sky. "My cab got stuck down the street. I had to finish the distance to your door at a run." She fanned a hand in front of her face. "But my work is done. Mambo Sabine will know what to do."

Noémi leaned on crossed arms. "And that being?"

"That being," Anais retorted, "that some men have good intentions, but all men have the directions wrong."

"You don't say?"

"It is the Madame who knows what his student needs, and has promised it to the young lady."

Noémi grimaced. "This sounds very mysterious. But you have done right, then. We women shall take care of the real work." She waved a hand at her friend. "Come inside. We just made lemonade."

"Ah, thank you. Lemonade sounds perfect."

* * *

Nadir leaned over the edge of the paper Erik held. "What does it say? Is it a spell? A ritual?"

Erik held his temper and motioned for his friend to take the paper, knowing full well he would be interrupted repeatedly until the Persian saw it.

Nadir through up a hand. "No thank you. If anyone is going to suffer a curse, it should be you. I mean, I mean the reader is usually the cursed one. Isn't that correct?"

Erik snorted at the Persian. "We were here for help, not to stir up trouble or pilfer tombs!" He leaned closer to the lamp in his entry way. "I should glance over it now, and then get the information to the Viscount. I'm sure he's in a twitter over the meeting."

"Erik," Nadir admonished softly. "He's worried for his wife."

Erik tsked. "It's a small amusement upon my part."

"Keep it very small."

"I will," Erik relented. He glanced behind him at the light that lit his entrance hall. "My own bride would have my head if she believed I would distress the fellow."

"It's petty, Erik. I know you can indulge some very stubborn and childish behaviors, but…"

"You have my word." Erik whipped up a hand, the paper still clenched between thumb and forefinger. "Just inform the boy we shall have a meeting about the details."

"You're certain?" Nadir's features mirrored his skeptical tone.

"As I live and breathe, Nadir. Mirielle would never forgive me. Besides, it cannot have been easy for Christine and his highhandedness to come back."

"Very well, I shall keep faith with you on this. We shall meet the Viscount for lunch."

"I've eaten with the boy once, Nadir—."

"And you shall again. Now, screw your courage to a sticking-point and prepare for lunch tomorrow."

"A sticking-place, Nadir."

"Where's that?"

"How should I know? It's Macbeth." Erik mused. "Although the idea of taking a sticking-point seems more apt. I mean to say, the play was a load of Scots talking about murder. Wouldn't sticking-point be called for in the case of pointed swords?"

Nadir stared at him. "How would I know? Shakespeare was a genius, they say. No one understands them at all." He popped his hat upon his head. "Noonish? We shall let De Chagny pick the place."

"Pistols at thirty paces."

"I haven't eaten there."

Erik choked back a laugh at his friend. "Good night, Nadir. Noon it shall be."

Nadir stepped out of the door, leaving Erik to stand upon the top step and watch until the Persian got into the cab that they had waiting. In the early spring night air, Erik turned to look upwards at the roof of his house. The light was on in the parlor. He decided to search for Mirielle.

He close the door quietly, hand grasping the knob so that it's click in the lock was faint. Erik slid the paper inside his coat and stepped into the parlor. The smell of lemon grew stronger as he approached."Hello, my dear. Having a cup of tea?"

Mirielle looked up with a smile. "Darling, how did it go?"

Erik slid off his jacket and paced around the room, filling in all the details for his wife. "Noémi wants you to come by the shop. Nadir told her you would be interested in seeing it."

Mirielle grinned as his hands settle over the one she offered. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly. You are a much finer conversationalist than Nadir."

"Fooey," she said with a low chuckle. "I believe you love showing off in front of Nadir."

"It isn't difficult. He's still murdering Shakespeare's idioms." He paused. "Would you like a nightcap?"

She crooked a brow. "What are you offering?"

"Saucy woman! I was offering to go to the kitchen and bring up a digestif, or to refresh your cup of tea." He paused. "What time did Anais leave?"

"She set out the dinner and then left. Madame Aulin and I talked until she said she was a little tired and begged off. I asked her to come by for lunch sometime if dinner was too late." Mirielle slipped a ribbon marker into the pages of her book. "Get your drink and then tell me about the priestess."

Erik dusted her knuckle with a swift kiss. "As my wife wishes."


	34. Chapter 34

34.

Doors were locked, curtains were drawn, and lights extinguished, but Erik still made his accustomed round of the downstairs. It was a habit, even living alone, to never give in to sleep until he was certain that everything was inspected and locked. It had been his way of insuring the world would not encroach upon the safety of his domain below the Opera. Likewise, in a real home, there was the chance of a door left unsecured, an ember in the stove not quite extinguished, a gas light left sputtering. The danger here was to Mirielle, to the house itself, and to himself.

His footfalls were as silent as a housecat's as he started up the stairs. From the bottom of his bedroom door, light escaped to offer a swath of invitation to the darkness in the hall. Erik stepped silently up to the door and pushed it open with his fingertips.

Mirielle was sitting on her side of the bed, taking another sip of her tea. She sat the cup down quietly upon its saucer with a sigh. "I curse this ankle, you know."

Erik smiled as he approached the bed and sat down next to her. "It's better to take it easy at first."

Her blue eyes held an appeal as she looked at him. "But I should be going out with you."

"I'll tell you a secret," he said softly. "Dogging my footsteps gives Nadir a sense of purpose."

"It does?"

"He's a retired policeman, dear. Every bit of his livelihood depended upon his skills in investigation. He's used to interrogations and soothing tempers as well as having a finger on the pulse of the community he serves. Here he lives in a community of Parisians and expatriates from several nations. Most of them are business men. A few have called upon his services, but nowhere near the amount that would keep him busy. Or well paid."

A slight frown crossed her brow. "Is he having money troubles?"

"No. He gets a stipend from his government to retire upon. But there is no purpose to his days. A man needs purpose. I had my music. Nadir had me."

"You know he is always welcome here, Erik. He's become your friend."

"Yes, he has." Erik paused and tugged at his cravat, sliding it from around his neck. " We snapped and snarled at one another for years until complacency caught up with us. I never completed the awful deeds he believed me capable of, and he shadowed me with his bowler and his boutonniere, subtly socializing me.

"I suppose that is why he and Percival and I got along. We all had our livelihoods wrapped up in security of one kind or another. Our paths met at the Opera, and as you know, we worked together when the time arose."

Mirielle sighed again. "Then at least you are in capable hands when you do this ritual."

Erik drew the paper from his pocket. "Here. See for yourself."

Mirielle studied it. "It looks like a shopping list."

"It is. The first thing we need do is find the ingredients we need and build a small alter upon which to appeal to Papa Legba to open the doorway."

"For who?"

"That, my dear, is what we have to decide."

"Oh? You don't know?"

"Not as yet. I have ideas, but I shall leave it up to Raoul to choose."

"Who do you have to choose from?"

"You appeal to the loa that offers the sort of help you need. Mambo Sabine explained that some of the loa are particularly good for things like luck, prosperity, problems in love, that sort of thing."

His wife looked at the list again. "Candles, flowers, candy? Money? Rum!"

"That's only the start of it," he said with a chuckle. "Those are things to appeal to Papa Legba, who will be curious and then sympathetic to the person who builds the alter. The rest of the list, the plants, are for a bathing process that will cleanse Christine of her woes."

Mirielle turned her attention to him, letting the list drift to her lap, clutched gently between her fingers. "Erik, do you believe that Christine's problem can be solved by a bath?"

Erik took the list from his wife, folded it and stood. Moving to their dresser, he lay the paper upon it. "Anais explained something to me. She said that the spirits respect the effort a person puts into their questions—the belief. Anything we do for Christine will be recognized by the spirits. That is all that counts."

Erik brushed a kiss upon her knuckles. "Are you going to read for a while?"

He watched as his wife went through her preparations for bed, all the while replaying Mambo Sabine's last words.

"_The ritual is to call the spirits,"_ she had warned. _"After their arrival, you must be prepared to do what is asked of you."_

Was that the way it started then? A spirit guide and a promise? All that is asked of you.

He had been Christine's guide. Or at the least, the person who had insinuated himself into her days at the opera and seen to her growth. She'd been a graduate of the conservatoire. They had prepared her voice. But it was he who had struggled to awake her soul.

Trusting her to another spirit would be daunting for Raoul.

Purchasing a bottle of rum and some cigars, or chocolates and food for an alter was one thing, but would the Viscount be prepared to carry out the requests of the loa?

He waited until Mirielle got into bed and pulled the blankets over her. He tucked them gently around her.

"You are coming to bed, aren't you?" she asked.

Erik looked down at his lovely wife, at her questioning eyes, her soft face, her hair on the pillow, still as dark as night, and smiled. "Of course, dear. I wouldn't want my wife to ask for a hot water bottle when she can have a warm husband."

Mirielle's chuckle was rich, deep with humor that shone in the lively sparkle of her eyes. "I much prefer my husband."

It didn't take him long to get ready for bed and turn down the lights. Sliding into the cool sheets, he rolled to one side, and slid a hand to rest of his wife's waist. She sighed, a contended sound in the night.

* * *

Erik woke at his usual time, early enough to don his robe and go downstairs to the kitchen to light the stove. Puttering around the kitchen, he drew water into the kettle and looked out the window at his back garden. The morning sky looked clear. It could promise a chill day, or if the breeze stilled, could allow the sun to bring spring's warmth.

He lost himself in looking at the plants through the window. Upstairs was a list of articles that would appeal to the spirits. Stepping out of the kitchen and into the garden, he understood what Sabine had impressed upon him. Here, in the rich silence under his trees, the energy of life crowded closer around him. Nature had a way of folding you into its pulse, its vibrancy. All around him was the movement of the trees, their branches waving, the leaves speaking softly as they rustled together. Life itself was here in abundance. How tragic that people did not stop to listen to it.

He walked slowly along the path under the trees. What had Christine lost, he wondered. Could it be that she had been disconnected from all of the meaning of life? Her time at the opera was spent day and night inside its walls. He had seen her as protected by it, and now he realized it was a small imprisonment. Her whole being was focused on being there when the note was struck, moving to where the marks were on the stage floor. Was she struggling because she lacked such finite guidance?

He quickened his steps. The kettle would be boiling now and he would present his wife with a morning cup of tea. At the edge of a bed near the door, a single pansy had escaped and was growing along a crack in the pavement. Erik bent and collected a pair of its blooms. Preparing the tea, he slipped the two flowers inside a napkin so that their colorful faces peered out. He tucked the napkin in the saucer and ascended the stairs.

Mirielle still slept. He sat the saucer and cup down quietly on her bedside table, and went about quietly selecting his clothing for the day.

Once dressed and out of the water closet, he arrived to see his wife had sat up in bed and was taking a sip of her tea. "Good morning," he said, leaning over her to place a kiss on her forehead.

"Thank you, dear," she replied softly. "Did you get these from our garden?" She had drawn the flowers from the saucer and laid them upon the folded back sheets at her waist.

"Yes. I took a quick turn out of doors while I waited upon the kettle."

"What are your plans for the day?"

"Nadir has badgered me into meeting the Vicomte for lunch. We shall explain the list to him."

Mirielle sipped her tea. "You have to keep in touch with him, Erik. The poor man is stretched to his limits. He has a right to know what you are planning to do to his wife."

"I know," Erik agreed easily. "But I can't resist poking fun at such a vast target."

Mirielle raised an eyebrow, and he continued, "No surprises. I swear I shall keep my jibes to a minimum as best my temper will allow me."

"We would all appreciate that, Erik. I know that Raoul may not accommodate you on all points, but you have grown in tactfulness."

"I've had to," he added swiftly. "I was wooing this woman, you see."

"And you did a fine job of it, once you got over trying to frighten her away."

He reached out and patted her hand. "I'm going down to get the paper. Anais should be here at any moment. I wanted her to look at the list."

"Are you going to ask her help?"

He paused. "I would ask her advice. We shall have to see what the Vicomte agrees to before we really know what to select for the ritual."

"Go then," Mirielle sighed dramatically. "I shall lie on the sofa with my foot elevated and while away my day looking at the wallpaper."

"Phooey," he said with a laugh. "You will read or crochet or ask Madame Aulin to lunch. But stay off of that ankle."


	35. Chapter 35

**35.**

The cab slowed to a stop along the curb a few storefronts away from the café. Erik preferred to exit in places not directly opposite to large windows which would offer the opportunity to gawkers. He quickly descended and let Nadir take care of the fare. Glancing along the street, he looked towards the Café Michaud. It was a small café with a plain façade over which draped baskets that would be brimming with flowers once summer began. Erik glanced at his pocket watch. They had arrived ten minutes before their appointed meeting with Raoul.

Nadir led the way in. Erik walked a few steps behind him and waited as Nadir arranged for a party of three. The waiter asked politely, "The party with the Vicomte?"

"Yes," Nadir replied.

Led by the waiter, Erik kept his interest on the small table they approached at the back of the café. Over the hum of conversation and the noise of dining, there was an occasional pool of silence. The occupants of the table would be staring at him as he passed. The Vicomte must have selected a table out of sight for many of the patrons without realizing that Erik would have to pass a gamut of curious stares.

Arriving at the small round table, Erik was forced to sit with Nadir on one side and the Vicomte to his other. He removed his hat and gave a curt nod in Raoul's direction.

"How are you?" Nadir asked.

Raoul nodded. "Fine, thank you. How did the meeting go?"

Erik noted the clipped tone of the boy. He also noted a clumsily tied cravat, and a small patch of lint on the younger man's jacket. He must have dressed in a hurry.

"Where does Christine think you are?" Erik asked.

Raoul leaned back in his chair. "I told her one of my superiors needed me to check in."

"Good. We won't have to keep an eye on the time."

"Will this take long?" Raoul seemed impatient.

Erik considered the boy before replying. "It will take as long as necessary for Christine's sake."

Raoul let out a breath. "Of course. I'm just anxious."

"Is it that terrible?" Erik asked.

A waiter stopped by the table. Three cups of café crème were swiftly ordered. Nadir took one of the menus. He shook his head as the waiter left. "Wouldn't you be anxious, Erik?"

"Trust Nadir to get to the point," Erik said softly. "Yes. I would be grasping for answers if it were Mirielle."

"How is your wife?" Raoul asked.

"Why do you ask?" The sudden change in their conversation alerted Erik.

Nadir leaned over the edge of the menu he held up, "It's polite, Erik."

"Well. She's very well."

Nadir pointed at something out of Erik's periphery. "Have some soup."

"I don't want any soup," Erik retorted.

Nadir sighed and let the menu droop to the table. "It will slow you down. Amicable chatter requires time." He gave a pained smile to Raoul. "He's still in training."

Raoul adopted a pained grin. "I have to agree. I feel every minute of my time remaining before my departure is slipping by too quickly. It's just that I will be so relieved when we get this straightened out."

The waiter returned with the drinks. Nadir ordered sandwiches for all with an accompanying bowl of soup. "I'm hungry," he said with a shrug as Erik stared at him. "Besides, it will give you the time to explain all this to Raoul."

"All right." Erik pulled out the list and began explaining the information that Mambo Sabine gave him. Raoul took the paper and waited until Erik paused before reading it. He read swiftly, then read down it again. "Flowers and candy?"

"Mirielle said the same thing," Erik replied. "In my travels I have witnessed a number of public ceremonies in various places. Isn't it customary to place flowers on an altar? Coins on a grave? Even in the east there is an emphasis on candles and food offerings."

"Any flowers?" Raoul asked.

"I think it is more the gesture that entices the loa. You are to use things that have meaning to you or to Christine."

Raoul let his hand drop, placing the list on the table near his coffee. "Chris has the strangest habit."

Erik sat patiently. It appeared the younger man was having difficulty framing his comments.

"She always asks for coins when we come to a bridge."

Nadir leaped in at the end of Raoul's words. "What does she do with them?"

The boy's lips lifted in a quick smile. "She tosses them to the trolls, she says."

"Trolls?" Nadir glanced at Erik in confusion.

"The Scandinavian's set store by their folk tales,' Erik began, "much the same as any other group of people. They believe in trolls, these other sort of people, who inhabit their countries. They aren't evil by necessity—but usually perpetrate some mischief. Abductions and that sort of thing." He paused to allow Raoul to say more. When the man didn't, Erik asked, "Has she always done this?"

"Yes. I remember when she and her Papa spent some time on my family's land. I think she was around eight. It was the first time I'd seen her repeat this ritual."

"Has she explained why she does this?"

"She doesn't say much. She tells me that the trolls live under the bridges and that if we give them coins it appeases them. It's just superstition," he finished.

"Much of superstition is couched in fact," Erik replied.

Their luncheon arrived, and the three of them thanked their waiter. Nadir leaned over his soup bowl. "But there are no trolls. Are there?"

"I've never seen one," Erik retorted.

"But in thick snowfall, howling winds, or darkness, who might not ascribe the shape of a beast to some struggling man?" Raoul said easily. "Erik is correct. All tales start from some occurrence of that nature. Its mankind's way of trying to understand the things that seem beyond our realm."

Erik sipped his soup. It was a very well executed onion cooked in a beef broth which complimented the little sandwiches Nadir had selected. Lifting his spoon, he nodded to his old friend. "This is very good."

Nadir paused with his spoon near his lips. "That's a shame. I was hoping to eat yours."

Erik brushed the comment aside whilst he asked Raoul, "Christine has always done this you say? Is there something about it that has alarmed you?"

They continued to eat, asking the waiter to refresh their coffee. Raoul waited until the waiter left. "I don't know why I mentioned it. Maybe I'm just grasping for what isn't there." They each took a few more bites before he continued. "Come to think of it, she has been crossing a lot of bridges."

Silence lapsed as the three of them enjoyed their repast. Erik noticed Nadir had stopped eating. "What is it?"

Nadir shook his head quickly. "Nothing. The sandwich is good?"

"Yes."

"Drat." Nadir gave a quick shrug and continued to eat.

"Are you that hungry?" Erik wondered aloud. "Didn't you have some breakfast?"

Nadir paused, his face a perfect mask of hangdog sadness. "I slept late….."

"Well order another sandwich," Erik retorted.

"By all means," Raoul added. "I'm picking up the tab."

For some unforeseen reason, Erik bristled at the idea that Raoul was paying. "That isn't necessary."

"It is. You gave us a splendid dinner at your home, and both of you are helping me with this dilemma. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Considering Nadir's obvious enjoyment of the meal, Erik relented. "Thank you."

"Now. How do we proceed?" Raoul said.

"I believe we go shopping," Erik replied. He finished his soup and sat the spoon down. Lifting the napkin to his lips he dabbed at his mouth. With his mask ending close to his lips, it pained him to think he unwittingly might have food debris stuck to it giving him a mustache of crumbs. Being in public could be trying enough without the embarrassment of being pointed at because the masked man appeared to be a messy gourmand.

Roul took a swift glance around the room. "I'll take care of the bill if you will wave down a taxi."

Nadir sat back with a contented sigh. "I suppose the swifter we are, the less stress will dodge Christine."

At Raoul's quizzical glance, Erik corrected his friend. "He means 'dog'. He gets things wrong sometimes."

"Not entirely wrong," Nadir pointed out. "You did grasp my meaning."

"I understand what you are saying because you keep relying on old saws."

Nadir shrugged. "People use them, that is why my speech is sprinkled with them."

Erik awarded his friend a blank gaze.

"What? Did I say another one?"

Erik sighed. "I lost count years ago."

Raoul smiled. To Erik it was one of the first that betrayed a genuine pleasure. How tense these days must be for the younger man. His wife in distress, an imminent date of departure coming closer, and this tenuous plot to perform a ritual that none of them fully understood.

For the first time, Erik wished he could have relented and brought Mirielle. She would notice it too and offered some insight, if not a modicum of support.

"Let's be on our way," he said. "The more time we have with Mambo Sabine we can ask more questions. This should be resolved swiftly."

They left the café, Erik standing back near the door until Nadir stepped into the cab. Raoul stood by the door. "After you."

Erik waved a hand. "After you. You are closer."

Raoul smirked at him. "But you are my elder."

Erik stepped up to the door and glared at the boy. "I was starting to like you. _Was_."

Raoul climbed in and shut the door, thumping briefly on the roof to let the driver know they were ready to leave. He had seated himself next to Nadir, across from Erik. "Did you hear that? He was starting to like me."

Nadir shook his head. "That's when all your troubles will start."

Erik sighed. "Yes. Let's get to the shop. Perhaps I can find something to gag the two of you with for the remainder of the day."

"You see," Nadir pointed out. "That is how it started for me."

"It did not," Erik spat. "I met you at the palace."

The cab made its way through Paris to the sound of their arguing.


	36. Chapter 36

36.

It was a short ride from the café to the botanica. Erik noted how Raoul gazed out the window as they drove. Ethnic ghettos were usually the haunts of the local inhabitants or the curious. He didn't believe the Count de Chagny or his younger brother would have reason to tour this section. It didn't appear to offer the sort of diversion two men of influential family would seek.

In truth, it was not the sort of area that Erik would chose to explore either, unless curiosity led him here. The world offered much to experience, to search, and life had not brought him here until now.

What imaging had pushed this idea, like a wrapped box, to the forefront of his thoughts about Christine's dilemma? Faint stirrings of the lost voice he had dreamed of filled his mind. There was no distress, only a deep and abiding sadness, an ache, that seemed incapable of being filled. It wept for something that Erik believed could not be returned.

Last night, Mirielle had held the paper gently and asked if he believed that a bath could cure Christine's problem. It came to him suddenly that his wife knew something. If not a fact, then an intuition, for she excelled at that sort of knowledge. She had not explained her reason to question him. It could be that she was formulating a theory.

Erik frowned as he glanced at Raoul. It wasn't a difficult thing to do in this case. The young man still proved annoying, and he believed the boy was indulging in particular jibes for the sake of saying them. The fop must know that Mirielle had asked that he not pester him.

Nadir smiled cheerily and pushed open the cab's door. "Here we are."

Annoying. It was like having a crumb stuck between your teeth with no time to dislodge it. Nadir was going to be chipper and the fop was going to indulge in verbal barbs. In his favor, the boy was at least intelligent enough to not be an outright whiney annoyance. Erik felt his teeth grind and cleared his throat. "Yes. Here we are," he retorted with mock lightness.

Nadir shot him a concerned glance behind Raoul's back as they proceeded to the shop's door. Erik awarded him a slight nod. _Yes, I shall behave._

Once again as he passed the threshold into the shop Erik felt as if he slipped into another world. He watched with keen interest Raoul's reactions. The shelves filled with jars and candles were easily taken in, it was the desiccated head of a small crocodile that arrested Raoul in mid step. His eyes slid towards Erik for a second and then continued along his examination. "Are these people," he continued in a low tone, "do they require a fee?"

"I don't believe they do. Perhaps like most churches a donation would not be turned away."

Raoul glanced at the till and the main counter. Noémi waited quietly smiling. Raoul stepped forward extending a hand. Nadir did the introductions. Erik observed the milieu, the owner of a small shop and an aristocrat exchanging pleasantries in meeting.

"Madam Toton, I am fascinated by your shop," Raoul told her.

"Please, indulge your curiosity then. We are most happy to have new friends visit our shop. It is a small slice of our world, our experiences, as well as our homage to our spirituality."

Noémi offered Erik her hand. He clasped it lightly. "As promised, I have brought you the young man whose wife is in need."

"You have brought him to the right place. Let me take your hats. I'll inform the Mambo that you have arrived and wish to visit her."

As she departed to the back of the shop, Erik watched Nadir walk along the shelves with Raoul, chatting about the descriptions on the labels of items. Raoul returned to the front counter. "This is fascinating. I read about shamans and healers in other cultures, but seeing it firsthand in a block of Paris, well, it's unexpected."

"Should I take your enthusiasm as acceptance of my plot then?" Erik asked.

With a curt nod, Raoul replied. "Unless anything disagreeable occurs, I don't see why not."

"Disagreeable?" Erik retorted. "Are you expecting extortion or an attack by cannibals?"

Raoul's mouth was set in a firm line. "Nothing of the sort, I like what I've seen so far."

"You did until you had a gander at that reptile." _Got you_. Erik held back a snicker. It was all fine when it was herbs and candles. Raoul might have read the stories of zombies, the undead raised to serve a voodoo priest, that proliferated wild stories of the Caribbean.

"I was wondering what it was for. I've seen things just as strange in some Chinese ports of call." Raoul's reply was abrupt. "I am hoping to understand what compels these people to help."

Erik agreed with the logic of Raoul's statement. He had never thought to ask it himself. He expected some form of remuneration would be welcome. At the least, they would be putting some business in Noémi's direction by making their purchases for supplies from her.

Noémi returned promptly. "Please follow me."

Once again, Erik found himself ushered through the small back office towards the open court where Mambo Sabine sat awaiting her visitors. Three chairs had been arranged in front of her. Noémi must have prepared the seating for their visit. Erik glanced around the courtyard. It was little more than an empty area between the buildings. Someone had attempted to line up pavement stones to cover the ground. Pots sat in the corners waiting some form of plant.

While nearby churches were built to house the divine, here the spirits of ancestors and the loa were free to visit in the open air. The marked difference between the protective home made by men and the free willed spirits appealed to Erik. Spending years in a society of gypsies who saw the value of an open road as a means for prosperity for their family had left a mark upon his imagination. It must have been a similar feeling for the people who were taken from Africa as slaves. Their unshakable faith is all they could carry with them to a new world.

Mambo Sabine reached out to accept Raoul's hand. She spread her hands, indicating the chairs. "Please, sit. Can Noémi bring you some refreshments?"

Erik glanced at Nadir. When his friend declined the offer, Erik believed they had finally fed him enough.

There was a moment of silence between them. Mambo Sabine inclined her head and grinned, a youth filled and teasing sort of grin at Raoul. "Ask all the questions you like, Monsieur."

Accepting her forthright invitation, Raoul shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped together. "I don't know where to begin."

Mambo Sabine lifted a hand and stroked her chin with a finger. "I believe the tale begins with M. Vachon."

Erik nodded. Anais must have prefaced his meeting with the Mambo by explaining his previous employment. How would she have said it? No, she would not have blurted out his nefarious undertakings, she must have told them of the man who so resembled their Baron.

"I had a dream," he stated simply. "I heard a voice in the empty halls of the Opera. It was upon waking that I knew that something was wrong with Madame de Chagny beyond simple nervousness or lack of voice practice."

"I agree," Raoul said. "It's like a part of my wife has gone somewhere else. She appears in good spirits, but something haunts her."

Sabine nodded. "You believe it is the voice she has lost?"

"I think it bothers her, realizing that it will to take work to restore her former accomplishment. For want of a better explanation, she just seems to have lost her spirit."

"Ah," the Mambo said, a simple proclamation, a wordless assent. "You have shared the list I sent with M. Vachon?"

"I have. If you will pardon me, I don't see how this will help her."

The older woman sat back. "The first thing a person must do is to prepare themselves for the loa. We do it when we go before the church and dip our fingers in the font. We paint the cross upon our brow in the very place that the mystics of the east believe the the window to intuition resides."

Erik felt startled, and then a little bemused. Because this woman had grown a slave on a Caribbean Island did not mean she lacked an education into the spirituality of the rest of the world. Mirielle would laugh at him when he reported to her later of the meeting.

"You draw the sign and then step inside," she continued. "Lighting a candle does not send your prayers to God. But it does serve as a ritual. It gives a person a moment of preparation, a focus, an abandonment of the cares outside the doors.

"Such is the use of the ritual of bathing. The herbs listed are very important. Plants were created by God and each is infused with its own spiritual properties. Having your wife perform the ritual cleansing will prepare her for the ceremony."

"Mambo Sabine, I'm sorry." Erik interjected. "You explained the bath, but there is more?"

She nodded. "Now that I have met the lady's husband, I believe we need to go one step further."

Raoul sat back. "So we prepare her for the bath. Then what?"

The Mambo's tone was patient. "You will gather the herbs and set up a small alter. Your wife will use the bath and repeat the prayers. She will repeat them seven times, she will be prepared."

Erik calculated swiftly. Was Sabine saying Christine would do it for seven days? "She repeats it once each evening?"

"Yes," Mambo Sabine agreed.

Raoul shifted in his chair. "This might be difficult. I believe I could convince her to try the waters, but seven times in succession?" He shot a side glance at Erik. "How are we going to explain that to her?"

Sabine's lips twisted into a frown. "This will not work if you are going to tell fanciful lies to your wife."

Raoul spoke quickly. "I wouldn't lie to her."

"You will explain?" Skepticism colored Sabine's tone.

From Raoul's silence, Erik guessed the younger man was loathe to perjure himself by telling Sabine a little fib in regards to how he presented the rituals to his wife. Finally, Raoul spread his hands and told her, "I don't know what to do."

If silence could be called electric, Sabine's mute posture held the promise of one of Jove's thunderbolts. The older woman relented. "We shall try another approach, no? Let me think on this. I will find another way."

Erik felt the tension melt away, his shoulders relaxing. He hadn't realized how afraid he had been that Sabine would toss them out of the shop and refuse to help.

"Thank you," Raoul replied. "I do not wish to deceive my wife."

"We shall meet again tomorrow. Can you do that?" she asked.

Raoul nodded quickly, "Yes."

"Keep that list," she instructed. "You can prepare the bath and put it in a spray. You are her teacher," she looked pointedly at Erik. "Tell her to use it on her throat. It will still perform its function."

"Of course," Erik agreed.

Sabine glared at the three of them. "The next list I give you will be for your part of the ceremony."

When no one spoke, Erik asked, "For Christine?"

"No,"she replied flatly. "Christine is not source of the difficulty. The three of you are."

Was the ringing in his ears from that promised clap of thunder? Erik asked in a mild voice, "A bath for us?"

"I'd give you worse than a bath, Monsieur. Instead of approaching this with intelligence, you are sneaking about like guilty children." Sabine made a disgusted sound. "You will prepare an altar of thanks to the loa. You will beg Legba's forgiveness for your fallacious plans." She whipped up a finger. "The loa deal harshly with liars."

Sabine folder her hands into her lap. "I shall dictate the list of ingredients. Return to me and I shall instruct you on how to secure the final ingredient."

Her words fell with all the weight of a wagon load of stone. Erik carefully enquired, "Your pardon, Mambo. Does Noémi not carry them in her shop?"

"Except for a key ingredient," she agreed.

Erik glanced at Nadir, who was rifling though the inner pocket of his jacket for his perennially available notebook and pen. Always the policeman, Nadir would write notes on what they needed. Once he was poised, pen above the notebook on his knee, the Mambo smiled. It wasn't the sort of smile that granted Erik the feeling of relief.

"By the light of the stars, on the evening of Sunday or Wednesday, you will need three spoonfuls of grave dirt. You will put the dirt in a small bowl that shall be surrounded by four stones which will represent the four corners of the world and placed upon a white cloth on a cleared space. A white candle shall stand in the bowl of dirt. You will mix the herbs into a clear glass bowl of holy water."

Nadir glanced up. "Holy water? Do you mean like the water in the founts outside of the churches?"

"That water is old," Sabine explained. "For a ritual cleansing and preparation, you will use clean holy water."

"We will need to have water blessed?" Erik reiterated.

"Of course," Sabine agreed. "Dusty or murky water will carry its own pollution. We wish for pure ingredients for the purity of the ritual."

"Excuse me." Raoul's face bore a pained expression. "Isn't dirt from a grave polluted?"

The Mambo smiled. "You are thinking with your mind, Monsieur. You must learn to open your eyes to the spirits. The grave is a doorway. We wish to knock." She mimicked rapping at a door.

"Is this the crossroads you mentioned?"

Her smile held a sharp edge and Erik felt his certainty slip. Shaking her head slowly she told them, "You will require another crossroad. You will find one."

Raoul shifted in the chair. "This isn't another grave is it?"

"No." Mambo Sabine laughed. "Paris has many crossroads."

With a sinking feeling, Erik asked, "Do you know which one?"

Sabine replied, "You will find one."

"According to your instructions, we must try each one?"

"Monsieur Vachon. The ritual is to open a door to spirits more powerful than your own. Madam de Chagny isn't the only one who will need to be prepared to meet the loa."

Absorbing her words, Erik heard Raoul asking, "What exactly does that entail?"

Erik gazed at the younger man. "You must be prepared to do everything asked of you."

"You don't need to offer a fortune," Sabine said gently. "The loa enjoy helping if you are gracious."

Sabine's instructions finished, Erik looked to the other men. "Thank you, Mambo Sabine." The three stood and offered handshakes which the older woman accepted with a serene smile.

Nadir led them back through the building, Erik hesitated at the door and glanced back at Sabine. She cocked her head and waited. Striding back to her, he asked in a soft voice, "Do you think we could persuade the loa to reveal which crossroad might be best?"

Sabine chuckled. "The loa you appeal to would be the one who helps people past obstacles, Legba himself."

"Thank you." He tipped his hat to her and turned back to the building. At the door, he had another question and returned to stand before her.

"I don't suppose you would know where we might get some grave dirt?"

Sabine rolled her eyes towards him as if he were a child asking if the sky were blue. "That, Monsieur, is a question for the Baron."

Erik experienced a slight chill raise up his spine.

He felt a doorway had just been opened.


	37. Chapter 37

37.

"Monday, Saturday and the number nine, the colors purple, black and white. The Baron enjoys cigars, coffee, roasted peanuts, chicken, white rum in which twenty-one red peppers have been soaked," Sabine explained, "and a very naughty joke."

"Saturday," Erik replied. "I could speak to the Baron on Saturday and then be prepared to find the crossroads on the Sunday with de Chagny?"

"You could, provided you reach the Baron."

"Anais could help me prepare, could she not?"

"You have three days," Sabine spoke in a gentle voice. "Are you prepared to join with the spirit world?"

It gave him pause. "You are saying the rum will not be the difficult part?"

Sabine nodded. "You will open your soul, Erik."

Faces flashed by etched in agony and fear. Another blossomed into view, Mirielle's smile, then Henri's innocent face, dissolving into Christine's anguished features. "I already have."

Erik stepped away from her. "The Baron and I are old acquaintances." With that he turned and joined Nadir who waited by the door. They proceeded into the shop where Noémi chatted with Raoul as she measure out the ingredients he needed. She offered one for him to sniff after she opened the jar.

"It's most refreshing," she told him. "The water will feel like an embrace from heaven."

Nadir stood on the far side, looking at his own list. He caught Erik's eye with a raised eyebrow. Erik awarded him a slight nod. _Later._

Noémi tucked small sachet's of herbs into a cloth bag. "You have your instructions, yes?"

"We do." Raoul tapped the list where it lay on the counter. "Each is to be measured by the number of spoonfuls."

"Once it is made, you can separate it into smaller jars if you wish to transport it."

Erik listened as she went on adding hints as to how to handle their concoction. When the business was finished, Raoul paid her for the supplies. She retrieved their hats and bade them a good day. "If you need anything else, M. Vachon, let Anais know."

"Thank you, Noémi. I will."

Once outside the shop, they waited for a cab. Nadir withdrew his watch and looked at it. "That was unexpected."

Raoul grimaced. "She's right, you know. I hadn't planned on how I was going to explain this to Chris."

Erik stood with his head tipped downward. With a finger, he traced the ornament on the silvered top of his walking stick as they waited for the approaching cab. "We would have come up with something."

"That idea Sabine gave us would suit our purposes, wouldn't it?" Nadir gave the address to the cab driver.

Once inside the vehicle, Raoul asked, "Once we mix this, we are committed. Can you get her to use the water?"

Erik was looking out of the window. "We can't mix it until we get holy water."

"That's easy enough," Raoul answered. "You ask at the church. People have water blessed to take home all the time."

"Our timeliness will be important." Erik pointed out. "Once we mix the bath, she will need to use it for seven days. But, as Sabine pointed out, we will have our own schedule to fulfill."

Nadir broke in, "What for? What did she tell you?"

"I asked who could give us a direction to the crossroad. She replied, Legba, who is the first key loa a person must contact. He is the opener of ways."

"I'm coming, too," Nadir replied in a firm voice.

Erik grinned despite himself. "I didn't say I had to attend a ceremony."

Nadir looked incredulous. "But you will. You aren't going anywhere without me."

"Or me," Raoul added.

Erik looked pointedly at the younger man. "This might not be the sort of thing you would be comfortable doing."

Raoul arched an eyebrow. His lips formed a firm but flat line. "I'm in a cab with the man who tried to drown me not a year passed. I think I'm capable of attending a voodoo ceremony."

The boy would fight him every turn, Erik changed tactics. "Anais tells me that there could be possession involved."

Nadir crossed his arms and looked out of the window. "Now I am sure I am attending. Civic duty. A possessed Erik? "

Erik chuckled. "I wouldn't have it any other way." De Chagy's composure hadn't broken. The stubborn set of his jaw made Erik relent. "All right, you can come along, too. But we do have a more important problem."

Both men waited for him to continue. "The women," Erik pointed out. "We will need them to be occupied while we reconnoiter. Once we are set, I can have Christine come for the regular lessons for seven days. I'd rather have Mirielle keep her busy until then. What does she like to do?" he asked Raoul.

"She's done a little shopping. Don't women take tea in the afternoon?"

"The ceremony will be in the evening," Erik pointed out. "We don't know the duration or the number of times it will take to get the location of a crossroad."

"Send them to the opera," Nadir suggested.

"Mirielle might have suggestions. Besides, where are we going to say Raoul is? Or myself for that matter."

The cab turned and started across a bridge. The smell of the water and the sound of birds punctuated the pensive silence. "This might take a while," Erik said softly. "It's already Tuesday. Anais can inform us as to schedule meetings. I will see what she and Mirielle can come up with, and then we can set our timetable by them."

"Mama V." Raoul said.

"What?"

"Madame Valerius. She and her husband had acted as benefactors to Christine's father, bringing him to France. She's an invalid now. Perhaps I could have Christine visit her again."

_Yes_, Erik remembered, _the older woman Christine visited when she went to her father's grave in Perros_."That could be an added option. But you will have to get in touch with the lady and ask."

"I could send her a telegram this afternoon."

Silence descended inside the vehicle while the rhythmic clop of the horse's hooves kept time outside.

"All right. You send your telegram," Erik instructed, "and Nadir and I shall speak to Mirielle and Anais. In the meantime, we shall prompt Christine to take a lesson, say, twice a week, for a warm up. Once we hear from Madam Valerius, we can adjust our plans."

Raoul nodded his assent. The cab pulled to a stop in front of Erik's home. He offered Nadir some franc notes to pay the driver. Standing beside the still open door he told Raoul, "Shall we set a tentative lesson at the opera on Thursday?"

"Certainly. I'll approach Chris with it tonight."

"Very good." Erik closed the door and tipped his hat, watching as the cab pulled away and entered the street traffic.

Nadir smoothed his jacket as he turned towards the house. "I feel like insects are running up and down my spine."

Erik glanced downward. "Are you standing on an ant hill?"

Nadir snorted. "Of course I'm not standing on an ant hill. I was a police investigator, you know. I'm referring to an electric feeling. This is an adventure, Erik. I can feel it."

Erik shook his head and walked towards his house. Pushing open the door, he called out, "I'm home, dear." He doffed his hat and with a deft twist of his wrist, sent it spinning across the hall to catch on a hook on the hall tree. He slid his walking stick expertly into the umbrella stand.

Anais came out of the dining room holding a feather duster. "Ah, Monsieur Kahn. May I take your hat?" She tucked the duster in the crook of her arm.

Nadir smiled brightly. "Anais. As lovely as a spring day."

She awarded him a crooked smile as she rolled her eyes. "Now what have you been getting up to?"

Nadir faked shock, placing a hand over his heart. "Me? Not me. Never me. I simply escorted my friend to luncheon, which by the way served a very good onion soup, and then to the botanica."

Anais examined Erik's mask. "How did it go?"

With a sigh, Erik told her. "We've experienced a change in plans." He stopped and glanced inside the dining room. "Where is my wife?"

"She is in the back garden, monsieur, with Augustus. He's working for Madam Aulin again. They have been chatting over the back fence."

"Let's go outside, Nadir."

As Erik swept passed, Nadir put his hands together. "Any coffee?"

"To be sure, Monsieur Kahn."

"Bless you, child," he said as he hastened to catch up with Erik.

The back garden was lit by the wan spring sun as it pushed through the cover of the trees. Erik listened for voices, and caught site of the stripped skirt of the dress Mirielle was wearing. She was standing near the fence with both hands braced along its top. Gus stood at the side of Madam Aulin. He pointed towards Erik, causing Madam Aulin to turn with a smile.

They exchanged greetings, Mirielle smiled at him. Taking the fresh air made agreed with her, her eyes were bright. Erik placed a hand over hers where she braced against the fence. "Are you holding on so that you can keep the weight off of that ankle?"

"It's much better," she replied. "But I am being cautious."

"Good." Erik took her hand in his and tucked it into his arm. "How are you, Madam Aulin?"

"I'm fine, M. Vachon. Augustin and I were looking in on the goose." The gardener added, "He's adjusting."

"Splendid. I've just gone to have lunch with M. de Chagny," Erik confided. "I should like a suggestion from you ladies."

"For what?" Mirielle asked.

"We need to keep Madam de Chagy busy on the days she isn't practicing. What do ladies do for entertainment?"

Mirielle and Madam Aulin considered a moment. "We do chores," the older woman explained. "Then we sew."

To Erik their days seemed to be very limited. He had a deeper understanding of why his wife enjoyed accompanying him. "Well, Madam de Chagny is in a hotel, so that rules out chores."

"But she will have singing lessons with you," Mirielle pointed out.

"Yes, I requested we set up a Tuesday and Thursday session for the time being."

"Get her a project."

"A project?"

"You are at the opera," Mirielle pointed out. "Couldn't she take on a role, or teach? Find her something where she could mentor someone."

"Charity," Madam Aulin added. "Women throw their energies into volunteering for charities to occupy their free time."

Erik mulled over the suggestions. "I shall find something for her."

"Ask Raoul," Mirielle replied sweetly.

Erik stared at his wife. The little rogue knew showing her familiarity with de Chagny rankled.

"Of course, my dear," he replied easily. "He and I are going to be spending some time together."

Erik let his comment drift to silence. From the slight change in her gaze upon him, he knew he had snagged his wife's curiosity about his plans changing.


	38. Chapter 38

**38.**

Noémi found Mambo Sabine sitting quietly in the sun with her eyes closed. Sabine heard her approach and opened her eyes. "How did it go?"

Grinning, she replied, "They aren't happy. I have changed plans. I've got them working on their own ritual. That will give us time to prepare for Madam de Chagy's."

"He seems a nice young man."

"Oh, yes," Sabine agreed with a nod. "But where his wife is concerned he is treading carefully. As I suspected, he didn't have a clue of how to approach his wife with the bath."

"You instructed them to go on with it, didn't you? He bought the herbs."

Sabine's smile lit her face. Noémi felt her own smile grow in response. "We will keep them busy."

"May I ask how?"

"Anais says that M. Vachon is a musician. I plan to give him something to dance to."

Noémi's smile faded.

Sabine clucked her tongue. "Nothing terrible. Just a little bit of a race for things to keep their focus elsewhere. And expect them for an evening ceremony. M. Vachon wishes to meet the Baron."

Noémi felt excitement stir inside her. "Oh, I hope he has the chance."

Sabine closed her eyes again and turned her face up to the warming sunlight. "I do not doubt that he will make it happen. He is touched, you know."

"Touched?"

"Oh, yes. M. Vachon has walked the crossroads for much of his life. We shall see how deep his footsteps carry him."

* * *

Mirielle held onto Erik's arm as they proceeded back to the kitchen door. Nadir was standing in the doorway, sipping from a teacup. He touched his forehead in a mocking salute. "Mirielle, your ankle is much better."

He stepped back into the kitchen, holding the door open. The moment Mirielle crossed the threshold she whirled towards Erik. "What happened?"

Erik gave her a little push towards the table with his fingertips. "Nothing."

"I don't believe that," she replied as she sat in a chair Nadir had pulled out for her. "If things had gone as you expected the two of you would be preening over your accomplishment."

"Preening?" Erik asked in a gruff voice. He glanced at Nadir. "We don't preen."

Nadir peered over the rim of his cup. "I don't think so."

"Well?" Mirielle's tone was insistent.

Erik seated himself across from his wife. Nadir chose to stand, leaning against the sink with his coffee. "There are a few changes."

Mirielle inclined her head, she was so anxious for an answer Erik almost chuckled. "We—we didn't have all the proper preparations in order. Mambo Sabine has suggested we gather some other ingredients."

Mirielle sat back. "That doesn't sound so bad."

Beyond her periphery, Erik took note of Nadir drawing breath to answer. Erik quickly held up his fingers beyond his wife's field of vision, wiggling them to forestall the answer his friend was about to reveal. Nadir's gaze shifted, he pursed his lips.

Thanking providence that Nadir's observational skills were still sharp, Erik continued to explain. "Nothing we can't handle. We just need to visit the shop again."

"Oh?" Mirielle turned to glance at Nadir. She most have noted his relaxed stance. She might assume that since Nadir was quiescent, that the changes were not drastic.

Erik added, "That is why we will need you to keep Christine busy. We don't want Raoul's absence to alarm her."

"Very well," Mirielle agreed. "I can send her a note. We could meet somewhere for lunch."

"Dinner," he replied.

"Dinner?" she parroted.

"Yes we will be out for a number of nights."

"You will? All of you?"

"Yes, my dear," he soothed. "It appears I am to not roam Paris unescorted. Nadir and Raoul both will attend."

His wife sat and adopted a doubtful look. "It takes several nights to mix herbs?"

Despite himself, Erik smiled at his wife. "There is a question of a location."

"It takes several nights to find?"

"No, my dear, it will take asking the Baron to point the way."

Mirielle stared at him in silence. "All right. But Nadir must accompany you."

His friend came swiftly to the side of the table. "I shall be his constant shadow."

A little over a year ago, Erik would have balked at Nadir's answer. Marriage had somehow taken the sting from this need of the former policeman to become inseparable from him. A trade, he realized, Nadir has become less of a follower and now more of a guide. Erik felt a lopsided grin twist his thin lips. From inspector to an accomplice. He hoped Mirielle would not see it that way.

"Of course. Out of the three of us, the Baron might choose one to speak to."

Nadir's face lost all expression as the brunt of Erik's comment sank into his mind.

"You'll do splendidly," Erik assured him. By the change in Nadir's face, Erik knew he was going to spill more details than he wanted Mirielle to worry over. Sanding swiftly, he grasped the man's arm. "We need to make some plans," tugging Nadir towards the stairs that led down to what he had termed The Lair. Stepping smartly, Erik kept Nadir's attention divided between keeping the last of his coffee from sloshing out of the cup and watching his footing on the stairs.

At the bottom, Erik let go of him and placed a finger on his lips to stop his friend's protests. He switched his finger to point upwards. Nadir pursed his lips and relented with one shake of his head. "Give her a minute to leave the kitchen," Erik instructed.

It was a long minute for both of the men. By the set of his features, Erik expected an explosion from the Persian. "You said you wanted to attend," he reminded him.

Nadir shot a petulant look at the stairs. "I didn't think it could fall to me to be the sacrificial lamb."

"I doubt you will be," he said in a soothing tone. "Mambo Sabine has been most clear that the loa commune with the person who seeks them. That will be me."

"But what if it isn't?" Nadir retorted. "What if it is Raoul? It is his wife in trouble, you know."

"I've thought of that," Erik reassured him. "I'm going to find out all I can from Anais so that I go in prepared to commune with the loa."

"How? Purchase a ticket? Make an appointment? This isn't the sort of conversation one can plan on," Nadir demanded.

"True. But the loa will be drawn to the person imploring them. It falls to me to prepare whatever is necessary and leave myself open."

Nadir exhaled loudly and considered the bottom of his teacup. "I seem to remember a promise like this once before."

"This isn't the Persian court, Nadir."

"And there are no chandeliers," his friend added in a facetious tone.

"You've learned to trust me, old friend."

Nadir swallowed the last of the coffee in a gulp. "It isn't you I worry about. We have endured much, Erik. But this time we are relying on divine intervention."

"Yes," Erik agreed. He had many things to learn from Anais.

* * *

It wasn't until Anais prepared to leave for the night that Erik stalked her as she left the kitchen. He stood just inside the dining room door and whispered to her, "A moment?"

His maid stopped and glanced towards the parlor where Mirielle waited.

Erik understood the direction of her gaze. "Say good evening and I shall meet you outside."

A puzzled look crossed the woman's features. With a faint shake of her head, she proceeded through her evening routine, bidding farewell to his wife and quietly retrieving her hat at the front door. Grasping the knob, she opened the door and stepped out.

Erik stepped up to the parlor door. As Mirielle glanced up from her reading, he explained. "I have a question for Anais. I shall catch up to her on the street."

Not waiting for his wife's reply, he darted out onto the front step where Anais awaited him.

"The plans have changed," he explained. "I have to meet the Baron."

Anais stared at him for a moment. She drew a breathe and replied in a careful voice, "You are taking a prodigious step, Monsieur."

Erik chuckled. "My wife told me that I dash into things." Examining her expression, it appeared she was withholding a comment. "It can happen, you have said. If one comes humbly and truthfully to the loa. It's called a leap of faith. If I put myself at their disposal, do you believe they will come to my aide?"

Anais considered in silence. "You will need to purify a space. In that space you will build an alter to invite Papa Legba. Once you commune with him, you will have to entice the Baron."

Erik ticked off the days. It was already Tuesday evening. "I won't make the deadline for this Saturday, will I?"

"Saturday is a favorite with the Baron. Your first test will be to ready yourself for Legba. It may take some time," she warned.

With certainty dawning on him, Erik relented. "Very well. I shall perform my steps to meet with Legba. That shall be my first goal."

Anais awarded him with a crooked grin. "The cleansing is the first goal, Monsieur. How long is it that you have prayed? How long since you have sat in a hallowed place and listened to the quiet?"

The underground lake came to mind. The sound of the pole sliding into the lake water, its gentle lapping along the hull of the gondola as it slid under the moonlight that would find its way down. His home, perched in the dark but lit from within by the gas lamps, sitting expectantly for him to enter and take up a place before the organ, or lift his violin to his shoulder. Music had filled his life and his spirit.

He remembered standing beside Mirielle in La Madeline. Half of what transpired seemed far away as he spoke his vows.

"I'll explain things tomorrow," she promised. "Get a good night's sleep."

He nodded and stepped back towards the door. "Good evening, Anais, and thank you."


	39. Chapter 39

**39.**

Erik kept the chatter with Mirielle centered on what she discussed with Madam Aulin that evening. She did not pry into what happened at the Botanica any further. His wife must have surmised she wasn't going to get any more details from him. She didn't even ask his plans after breakfast the next morning.

He didn't feel as if he was withholding anything from Mirielle. It would simply be better for her not to worry over details. She might have her own hands full trying to come up with excuses to invite Christine over for meals on the precise evenings that he and Nadir and the Vicomte were to attend ceremonies.

The morning trickled by. Erik assumed the usual routine of the house until the hour shortly before lunch was due. Anais, donning her apron, flicked a finger at the stairs that led downwards. It was the signal that they had time to be alone.

Leading the way, Erik turned up the lamps and waved a hand towards his worktable. Anais pulled out one of the stools he left just tucked under one side and perched upon it. "We should begin by finding you a place to build an alter so that you can get used to calming and centering yourself," she instructed.

"The first step is to return to the sacred. Each place that houses an alter is much like the peristyle, our church. You empower it with your intentions, and you must infuse it with peaceful energies. Voodoo is about balance, the peaceful establishing of the balances of all forces in our world and the spirit world. The more energy that you can build here, the more you shall have a place to come to for quiet and for power within yourself.

"The alter is the gateway to the other worlds. They are not around us, they are inside of us, just so as our souls are within us. Have you not experienced a quiet place where you compose? Or you work. Is there not a place you seek that always grants you creativity? An intuition?"

Erik nodded his assent. He had moved his composition notes from one place to another in his home until he found a place that simply felt right.

"That is your alter. This alter will be used to focus on interacting with the spirit world and the ancestors who have gone on before us." She paused and looked around her. "Where ever you decide, you should separate that space from the rest. A curtain or a screen is best. You wish a barrier to keep out the mundane that can intrude upon your _kay myste_, your house of mysteries.

"You need a raised surface or a table. It is better to seek all of your materials from the natural world. Wood, plants for fabrics, rocks, they were created by the great God and each hold his fingerprints. You will cover the alter with a clean white cloth. This cloth will be sprinkled with Florida Water."

"Does the Botanica carry this?"

"Yes. It smells of bergamot and cinnamon. It can be used as perfume, wiped on doors and window sills for protection, it even will soften the skin or the beard. The loa love it. For you, it will be used to protect your alter from the mundane and the negative forces in the world." She paused and smiled. "I could have brought you a bottle, but I think it is more important that you gather your elements on your own. Each act is a spiritual invitation."

"Perfect."

"You will need four stones. I choose ones the size of my palm. You will wash these in salt water and place one on each side of your alter."

"The four corners of the earth," Erik surmised.

"Think of them as representing the cross. It is the crossroads where the living and the dead meet."

Erik nodded, mentally arranging the stones in a cross-like pattern.

"In the center you will place a clean glass bowl filled with water. You add three drops of white rum to it as you bless your alter and yourself. Sprinkle a little of the water on your stones, naming them as you do."

"What names?"

She paused. "You understand that to name something is to give it power?"

"I've heard that, yes."

"In this way, you also charge that with fixed intent, you bring it to life. I have named my stones after my aunts and uncles. Many people choose someone who has meant something in their lives.

"Now take a glass candle holder, like the one Madam has in on the mantle, and place a little earth from your garden in it. Sprinkle it with salt, and position it directly in front of the bowl of water.

"You will need a white candle and some oils to anoint it with. As you perform this, think about your intent, then place it in the holder. That will be the basis of your alter."

"The basis? There is more?"

"Create your alter. We can talk about what comes to mind tomorrow. You can collect things to add to it. If you achieve a centering of your spirit, images will come to you."

Erik smiled. "I must warn you. When left alone for any time I begin to hum."

Anais smiled brightly. "The loa will be happy if you do."

She excused herself and retreated up the stairs to begin preparing lunch. Erik stood and looked at his worktable. It would serve, but he felt the impetus to find another place. There had to be a place that was for lack of a better description, a clean place. His worktable was the repository of bits of hardware and his latest projects to work on. He felt it only correct to find a purer spot.

It was, after all, his own spirit he was going to offer up for communication with the loa. It would not serve him to make a slapdash attempt or be a miser if he truly expected in an arrogant and thoroughly human way to draw in the spirits to suit his own time frame.

It seemed a good idea to go to a place of importance to him. After lunch, he would make a trip to the opera.

* * *

Erik preferred to enter the building unnoticed. A stray comment about his being at the opera might alert Christine. He could have come up with a reason on that account, but like Raoul, he didn't want to start inventing tales. It wasn't exactly dishonesty or lying. It was that damnable little white lie people describe.

He'd had enough experience with lies in his life. He did not want to start lying to Christine again.

Down one cellar and then the next, he stilled his thoughts. In the past, the feeling of approaching his home was a looked for emotion. As he drew deeper into the bowels of the building, there was silence, but it felt rather empty. Anais had described a place that resonated with the sacred space at the edge of the worlds. Curiously, the opera did not feel that way to him.

After pacing his home, room to room, Erik stood still in the living room and closed his eyes. Not a peep came from any spirits. Giving up in a huff, he tried the lake. And then he left the building, taking a cab to La Madeline. Surely the place where he was married would resonate.

It didn't.

Walking to the park where he and Mirielle had taken a promenade, he took in the fresh air and the chatter. It was calming, but much too public, the same as the church had been. Perhaps that was the problem. He hadn't found a spot where he could be left alone to his thoughts.

After spending the day trudging from one venue in Paris to another, he gave up and went outside of his home. If he couldn't find an alter, he could find the stones required for the ritual. Walking beneath the branches he listened to his footsteps and the sound from the river. Two boats were passing, one a barge and smaller canal boat. As they drew abreast, a man on the deck leaned out and called to the other craft. Erk couldn't make out the words from where he stood, but the meeting looked to be friendly. The two large shapes continued on barely leaving a ripple on the water surface. At once, he felt the edge, the demarcation between the solid soil beneath him and that expanse of water.

He would put his alter in his garden. It was private and Mirielle would understand that he preferred her not to examine it. She would find someplace else on the property for Gus to work until all of this had run its course. Besides, he thought, she was going to be keeping Christine busy elsewhere.

The trees overhead rustled in the change in the breeze. He took it as a sign that the loa approved.

* * *

Mirielle was reading the news paper when a tapping sounded at her front door. Anais swept past, tucking her duster beneath her arm. When the door opened, Mirielle heard her maid greet Madame Aulin. Folding the newspaper, Mirielle indicated a seat on the sofa next to her. "Good afternoon, Madame. How are you?"

Madame Aulin smiled as she walked her careful steps into the room. "I have an idea. Have you seen in the paper that there is to be an exhibition at the Jardin deLuxembourg? We could take Madam de Chagny for the day."

"Oh, I hadn't seen it yet." She lifted the paper and offered it to the older woman.

"Here," Madam Aulin lay open paper across both of their laps where the perched upon the sofa.

Mirielle scanned the article. "They do have a place that serves refreshments."

"There are many along the way if we meet the girl at her hotel."

"Call her Christine, she will insist," Mirielle said. She looked up from the page. "How do you know what hotel she is in?"

Madam Aulin smiled. "I don't. But I know that they must be somewhere close, otherwise they would have left earlier from the dinner the other evening. And besides, the Viscomte didn't use his own family conveyance. They came in a cab. It stands to reason that they have taken accommodation somewhere near the Opera because of her return. Despite his social position, they would have had to take lodging in a smaller hotel."

"I hadn't thought of that," Mirielle admitted. "Erik must know. Christine sent him a letter when she returned. It must have the hotel's name upon it."

"Of course," Madam Aulin replied softly.

"That is very observant of you. Erik thinks you were in service to France. Secret service," she stressed.

Madam Aulin chuckled.

Mirielle realized the other woman did not try to refute the question.


	40. Chapter 40

40.

The notes had been sent. Erik glanced at the clock on the mantel. Any moment now, a cab would arrive.

There was a knock at the door, Mirielle was swift to reach it first. "Come in, Christine. You look lovely, dear. Are you ready for a stroll?"

"Thank you for inviting me."

Erik's heart beat a little faster. That voice had filled his dreams for so long. Thankfully, it sounded brighter as Christine spoke to his wife. I made him doubly happy that Mirielle had taken the girl under her wing.

Stepping out of the parlor he stopped at the door and nodded. "Good afternoon."

Christine did indeed look happy. "Good afternoon. We are going to the display at the gardens. Did your wife tell you?"

"To be sure," he responded. "You ladies should be out enjoying the warm spring air. I should think you will be happy to leave that hotel room."

Christine's smile turned to a grimace. "Raoul has to report in again. It is dreadful having to wait until he returns. He said it was a conference." She glanced at Mirielle. "He might be gone until the evening."

"Oh dear," he wife sighed. "I'm sure it will be dreadful for him as well. Not to worry, Christine. We shall walk over to Madam Aulin's door and then off on our own adventure."

Christine glanced at Erik. "I feel badly for my husband. He will be cooped up in a stuffy building while I shall be strolling in the fresh air."

"Bureaucracy is tedious. And I am sure he would rather come back knowing that you did not languish in the hotel without him. Enjoy yourselves." With a smile Erik escorted them to the door. "I shall wave down a cab," he volunteered.

The ladies walked up to Madam Aulin's door. The little woman appeared carrying a parasol, she joined them as Erik waited holding open the cab's door for the ladies.

"Have a nice afternoon," he said, waving as they pulled away from the curb. As the cab rounded the corner of the street, he whipped out his watch. With swift steps he turned and strode to the opposite end of the street. Waving down a cab, he gave directions to the Botanica.

* * *

Loathe to wait outside of the Botanica, Erik proceeded inside alone. A couple were at the counter chatting with Noémi. She met his glance and gave him a nod, continuing to speak to her customers. Erik slid along a set of shelves out of view until the couple left. Noémi joined him, bidding him a warm welcome.

"I'll have to await the arrival of my companions," he told her. "Everywhere I go they wish to accompany me."

Noémi nodded in agreement. "We have work to do to prepare. Come, I will show you."

Nadir arrived while Erik was assisting in fetching jars from the shop for Noémi. He looked over Erik's shoulder as Erik squatted down to retrieve a jar. "What are we doing?"

"Noémi is teaching me to prepare Road Opener and Legba oils." Erik took the jar back to the counter where Noémi worked.

Nadir looked at the line of jars. "Do you, uhm, bath in it?"

Noémi grinned at him. "No, you anoint a Road Opener candle with it." She pointed, and he went to fetch one for her. From inside the glass that held the candle, she pulled a piece of paper and offered it to Erik. "This is the prayer to recite for Papa Legba. Anoint the candle and offer the prayer as the candle burns."

Nadir looked at the paper over Erik's shoulder. "Must you recite it in French?"

"Papa Legba speaks all languages," she replied. "You are talking to spirits. They communicate differently than we do."

"Do you mean possession?" Erik asked.

She nodded. "It happens. One is considered blessed to be the chosen to pass a message that might be for yourself or someone else."

"Similar to the phenomena of speaking in tongues?"

"To be sure." Noémi poured the contents of the bowl into a small bottle and pushed a cork into it. She wiped the sides of the glass as she offered it to Erik. "Now you have your candle to anoint and your Florida Water for the alter.

Erik asked, "Do you have a source for the grave dirt?"

She looked at him with raised brows. "From a grave. People die every day, Erik. You will just need to be there to take a handful from the cemetery."

"It, ah, doesn't need to be a specific sort of person?"

Noémi rested her crossed arms on the counter. "I have never found that it mattered."

Nadir was reading labels on the jars that still stood on the counter. "Here, Erik."

Erik took the jar. The tag was handwritten and read _grave dirt_. "Could I use some of this for the Baron?"

"You just used a pinch for the Road Opener," Noémi explained. "We live in Paris. Being from our countries, we know family and friends who have passed on. Graves are not difficult to find." She held up a finger, "But you are attempting to reach the Baron swiftly. A more powerful dirt is important."

Nadir leaned closer over the counter. "What sort of grave dirt is more powerful?"

"The greatest is from a location close to a crossroad."

Erik sighed. "I was afraid that was the stipulation."

Noémi pushed the bottle and the candle towards him. "Papa first. If you impress him he will speak to the loa for you." She paused a moment and looked at them both. "Mambo Sabine did explain that you may be visited by other loa as well?"

Erik felt Nadir's attention focus upon him. "I was told that, yes."

"You are thinking of exploring. You may have a long journey."

Erik took the bottle and the candle. "I'm prepared. Or, preparing, I should say. Anais has been helping me."

"Good. Rest your fears. What you bring to the loa they will examine and understand. They may even set a task for you for the benefit of someone else. It is the way the balance works." Noémi glanced over her shoulder at the clock that topped a shelf behind the counter. "You should speak to Mambo Sabine now." She motioned towards the back of the shop.

Nadir followed Erik out into the courtyard. The afternoon sun had warmed the stones and washed the area with light. Today the courtyard had changed, the benches and planters still sat around the far sides, but the interior space was ringed by some chairs. Over head were strings radiating from the top of the central post and from these hung colored pennons of all shapes and lengths. The poll itself was ringed with a streamer in bright red. "Mambo Sabine," he called in greeting.

Sabine was standing. Erik took in the cane she leaned upon. As she moved, Erik understood the gap between the power of her spirit and the frailty of her body. She was an older woman, somewhere beyond the middle years. Given her background, life might have been physically harsh for her. None the less, she turned and smiled at him.

Drawing under the canopy of pennons, Erik pointed towards the pole. "Red for Legba?"

"_Oui_," she said softly. "Red is the _Rada_, the sweet side of Legba we call to."

"Then this-?"

"This is the peristyle, our own crossroads upon the earth." She cocked her head. "You are positively buzzing with excitement, yes?

Erik chuckled. "I am. I had not thought to have the chance to meet the loa so soon."

"Oh I think they will be intrigued by you." Sabine grinned and lifted her walking stick, "Over there is a bag. Bring it to me, Erik."

He fetched the bag for her, it was a simple sack containing what had to be cornmeal.

She folded the top down and reached in for a handful. Bending down, she began to draw. "This is the _veve_. You know this word?"

"Anias told me it is part of the ritual."

"It is," she agreed. She drew two crossed lines, positioning four circles in the open quadrants. "The _veve_ is the symbol like the name of the loa. It is for the loa, it is their place, and our little candle lit to attract them." She took another handful of the meal, adding curling arcs to each of the central lines. "We sing, you know. We have songs that we sing to attract our spirit guides."

"Anais told me they would love my humming."

Sabine laughed. "Hum for me then, Erik, while I teach you the words."

_Papa Legba open the gate for me, ago e!  
Atibon Legba open the gate for me!  
Open the gate for me, Papa, for me to pass,  
When I return, I will thank the lwa._

It was a simple tune. She began repeating it again and Erik supplied the words that he was beginning to remember. Sabine straightened and went to another space around the central pole. Erik followed, carrying the bag for her. This time she did not sing, and she drew a different _veve_. "This one," she explained, "you should not sing for. This one is for tonight, for a woman who suffers, she appeals to Erzulie Freda. You must not speak to her, Erik. She is beautiful and terrifying. She is the most powerful and the most demanding." She drew another handful of meal and added flourishes to the heart-shaped _veve_. "If Erzulie Freda posses someone and they cry we are happy. If they laugh, then the loa is very unhappy. Bad things happen when Erzulie Freda laughs."

They continued in silence until she straightened and dusted her hands. "This talk of Erzulie Freda will not scare you away, will it?"

"No," he said. "I seek Legba and the Baron."

"You seek an answer to the lost soul of Madam de Chagny. What if Erzulie wishes to help?"

Erik contemplated her question. "I would be a fool to refuse her. It would simply be a surprise for me."

"That is a good answer, Erik. Despite what we say with our words, we all bring desires to God. If we don't hear the answer we want, we chose to ignore what we are told. The loa do not like to be ignored. After all, we bring them gifts, we sing to them, we beg them. To ignore their requests would be ungrateful."

Despite stepping away from the veve, Erik felt his gaze drawn back to it. Was he truly prepared for anything that might happen? He noticed Nadir looking at the _veve_ as well, committing it to memory in the way he had as a police inspector.

Tonight would be a journey indeed.


	41. Chapter 41

**41 Ceremony for the Lwa**

The ladies strolled along the grounds of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Madame Aulin trod her steady steps with Mirielle and Christine matching her pace. "Over there is something you should see," the older woman said.

As they drew abreast of an ornamental iron railing, Mirielle took in the view of a man-made grotto. At the far end of it was a statue. They skirted the side of the pool and examined the statue.

"This was commissioned by Marie de Medici, she was Henry IV's wife. She was his widow the day of her coronation."

Mirielle scowled. "Those were such dark days."

"Indeed," Madame Aulin replied. "Her husband was stabbed while his carriage slowed for traffic that day. The assassin was drawn and quartered."

Mirielle glanced at Christine. "Torn into four parts by horses."

"Oh my God," Christine exhaled.

"That was after he was scalded with sulphur, burning oil and molten lead."

Christine stopped, her mouth open in horror.

Madame Aulin tsked. "Regicide is an unforgiveable crime, my dear. France exacts a harsh punishment on those who commit it."

"Not if it is during a revolution, as Marie Antionette would tell you if she had kept her head," Mirielle retorted. "Goodness. What a tale. But here, let's take a closer look at the fountain."

Madame Aulin took hold of Christine's arm. "I apologize, Christine. From the look upon your face you must not know much or our terrible history. Sweden hasn't had the political problems we have suffered."

"I was surprised, that is all," Christine replied. "It is not my place to judge other people by their history."

The older woman studied her face. "You aren't worried are you?"

Mirielle's own steps faltered. Christine had married into the aristocracy. "People aren't starving now like they were then. The crown squandered much of France's wealth to earn the ire of the populace."

Madame Aulin nodded. "True. Henry was a good king. He's responsible for many things. But his way around things was to pay people off. Even Marie, when faced with a group who wanted to renounce her claim to the throne simply bribed the men to go away. No telling how much that cost us."

Mirielle pasted on a smile. "Look. The fountain was inspired by a Greek myth. It's

Polyphemus finding the lovers Acis and Galatea." Polyphemus's giant form was wrought in bronze, while the lovers hid below him. "It was an opera as well, you know."

Christine explained to Madame Aulin, "Händel wrote it. It was very early in the 18th century, but historically was popular. It tells the tale of the lovers. Polyphemus was a Cyclops, in love with Galatea. Once he sees her with Acis, he flies into a rage and kills her lover."

"We should take in an opera while you are in Paris, Christine," Mirielle interjected. "We could make it a ladies night out." She stopped and looked at the younger woman who was staring up at the giant in bronze. "Are you all right, dear?"

Christine shook her head, casting an apologetic glance at Madame Aulin. "May I confide in you, Madame?"

The older woman nodded slowly. "Of course. I'm an expert at secrets." She sat a hand on Christine's arm. "And any burden shared is one that is easier lifted."

"Thank you. I-I think Erik is worried over my singing voice. It isn't my voice that is lost."

The two women waited for her to continue. Christine gazed at the looming figure. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose my husband to misfortune."

"Oh my," Madame Aulin breathed. "Let's find a tea room. This sounds far more interesting than talk of regicide."

Christine looked over the railing. "Would it be all right to toss in a coin?"

"Go on," Mirielle urged. "If anyone gets angry over it we will claim you don't speak French."

Christine drew out a coin, casting a long look at the looming Cyclops she tossed it close to the base of the statue. Mirielle felt tears prickle her eyes. The girl was terrified. No amount of coins or prayers would help her. She linked her arm with Christine's. "You have us. Erik and I will be there for you every day."

A smile flitted across her features. "Thank you."

"Come on, you can explain things to Madame Aulin."

* * *

Percival dit LaFougère stood at attention before the officer's desk. His Commander indicated the piece of paper in front of him. "This has to end."

"Sir?" Percival prompted as his commander fell silent.

"I know you have come to a working arrangement with the Phantom, but Daubigeon is now pulling strings to get people higher up the chain than myself involved."

"Exactly what does he want?" Percival asked.

"He wants the Phantom brought in for questioning." His commander made a sour face. "I understand you have worked with Monsieur, what is his name?"

"People from the Opera can verify his name is Vachon. It seems to me I heard him mention something about an apartment in the Latin Quarter."

"Really?"

Percival gave a negligent shrug. "I meet so many people. . ."

His Commander tapped a finger on his desk top. "I'll have to give him something. I wouldn't put it past him to have dispatched men to follow anyone associated with the Phantom."

Percival detected a hint in his Commander's voice. "I'll investigate it at once."

The Commander nodded. "Be discreet. I don't want any citizens bothered by this nonsense."

"Yes, sir." Percival saluted and spun on a heel. He needed to move quickly. The guards who had toured the cellars beneath the Opera would be the most likely detailed for this fool's errand. He needed to find them before they disturbed Erik.

* * *

Erik hung back at the dark space just outside of the office door. Nadir wedged himself along side, careful not to block the door for the arriving revelers. The emptiness of the Peristyle was fading under a sea of people. It hardly seemed to Nadir that the courtyard could hold everyone.

The women arrived in white dresses, all wearing a sash or a headscarf of blue. The men arrived in white shirts and pants. Some wore dark bowlers and dark glasses. Seeing one man linger at the door, Nadir sidled over and asked. He was granted his request and soon held a dark pair of spectacles in his hand as the man nodded with a smile and moved away.

Erik took the spectacles. Nadir lowered his voice. "They may be expecting their Baron, Erik. He wears those things, remember?"

"But I shouldn't. . ."

"You aren't trying to be _him_. They will know the difference. If they see your eyes, though," he let the comment trail off. Erik's eyes could be startling.

"Agreed," Erik mumbled.

A group of men arrived and set up drums. They began to play, each joining in the beat. One older fellow tapped on a curved piece of metal that reminded Nadir of the blade of a scythe. "Interesting."

"They must use what they had on hand." Erik's voice was matter-of-fact. As long as he sounded that way, Nadir would stand guard as casually as he could. If he detected stress in Erik's voice, well, Erik would not suffer it for long. He would grow vociferous or just outright vanish.

Nadir nodded at a few more people. They all began to circle the center pole. Mambo Sabine walked slowly among them. With a raised hand, she began to sing and the others joined.

"That's not the song she taught me," Erik explained. Sabine was joined by another woman and a man who wore dark glasses. He carried what looked like a gourd covered in a mesh. Sabine carried a bottle of spirits by the neck. The other woman was singing loudly.

They watched as Sabine and the others turned in a circle and stopped. They reversed the circle and did it again. At the end, Sabine began to speak. She held up the bottle and took a mouthful of the liquor. Spraying it upon the pole, they moved to the opposite side. This part of the ritual was repeated.

"That's the first blessing," Erik whispered. "It makes the alter holy. They will do it three times."

As Nadir watched, he too detected the pattern of words spoken in a challenge and response from the crowd. The drums played while Sabine performed the rite. The group stopped, all voices raised to offer a Lord's Prayer, a Hail Mary, and an Apostle's Creed. Finally, they began the song she had taught Erik.

"This is it," Erik said softly. "They will call the loa now."

Nadir felt the excitement of the crowd. They began to circle to pole, doing a sort of shrug, their steps shuffled one direction and then another. The song went on, their voices steadily growing stronger.

Nadir felt Erik's fingers on his arm.

"It's time," he said. Erik took his walking stick in hand, tipped his hat low over his face and gave Nadir one nod. "I can't be an observer, old friend. It's time to leap in and become part of this."

"I'll be right here, Erik."

Erik ran a finger along the brim of his hat. For an instant a reflection flashed in the lenses that turned towards him. Erik's smile was bright in the changing lights.

Nadir watched Erik's dark clad figure join the edge of the crowd. The revelers made space for him, seeming to offer outstretched hands and effusive smiles. In what had seemed like a cacophony of drums and loud singing, began to feel more familiar. They were still singing the song Sabine had taught Erik.

Nadir raised his gaze to the pole; he peered through the crowd to keep track of Erik. Rather than a blot, Erik's dark coat acted like a beacon. He had joined the steps, and the shrugs, here and there, the silvered top of his walking stick would pop up like a conductor's baton. As the crowd moved, Sabine and her helpers stopped.

The woman with her grew very still. The man took hold of her arm on one side, Sabine joined on the other. From the crowd, a younger man came holding a crutch. They gave it to the woman, helping her position it under her arm. The dancers still swayed, but stayed in place.

Erik was facing away. Nadir could tell by his body position that Erik was alert as he watched what was happening. The music continued but seemed louder. The press of the crowd was kept at a respectful distance. Sabine let go of the woman's arm.

Erik had gotten his wish.

Sabine lit a candle while people brought a deck of cards, bowls of peanuts and sweet potatoes, bottles of liquor and two carafes of a dark liquid, laying them at the base of the pole. Sabine swept a open hand towards Erik.

Nadir watched his friend hand her his walking stick.

It was time to call the Baron.

* * *

Please realize, I am not a practitioner of Voodoo. What I have learned is by research and the outreach of their community. I have left some things out, for I do not wish to show any disrespect (or ignorance) of the ceremony. I only know that Erik would feel much more than I can describe.


End file.
